The End Times - Retold
by Psykic Ninja
Summary: The End Times have come - Archaon the Everchosen leads the Chaos hosts in a storm that comes crashing down on the world, determined to end it once and for all. The races of the world rush to stop the forces of Chaos, but as they do ancient truths and lies emerge. As old heroes and monsters return to the world can the forces of the living and the dead stop the tide of chaos?
1. 1-1

The End Times of Warhammer FB are controversial to say the least, and I can understand the anger that came from them. I'll be honest, I quite enjoyed most of the stories of the End Times, even though I am sad about the lore that is now dead and buried. So here is my attempt to re-write the End Times of the Old World. I'm not the most knowledgeable on the lore about every race, but I hope I can do a good job.

So, here goes.

* * *

The ever shifting realm of Chaos were more tranquil than it had ever been. Towering mountains of floating stone skulls, charred black leaked molten lave from gaping mouths as the very earth itself cracked with the foul energies of the realm of Chaos. Here, in the land of the dark gods the greatest force ever to assail the world was gathering. Rank after rank of warriors blessed by the tainted energies of this hellscape gathered in the maze of war camps that sprawled from one horizon to another. Champions wracked with mutations and the scars of centuries of unholy warfare stalked the blood soaked ground, insipid cowtowing slaves trailed them, avoiding the gaze of their heroes as they basked in their presence, hoping to gain the eye of the dark gods by proximity alone. The hulking mounts of Kurgan tribesmen pawed at the ground, not cowed by the demonic mounts of the chaos champions, their riders sharpening their axes, eager to be set loose upon their foes and the Norscan tribes was almost bestial in their desire to pour south to the hated lands of order. Every day hundreds and thousands were murdered, slain in challenges or devoured by the demonic servants of the Dark Gods, but the constant clashes between hosts of nightmare and shadow were stilled. The Three Eyed King had ordered it so.

Archaon, the Everchosen of Chaos, Herald of the Apocalypse and anointed Lord of the End Times was in communion with his gods. His greatest champions saw him atop the ziggurat of bone and blood, unmoving as he stared up at the roiling skies, wondering what words he was bandying with their patrons. Sigvald the Magnificent, the Prince of the Decadent host and greatest mortal champion of Slaanesh pruned himself in his mirror shield, examining his striking beauty and marvelling at his perfect visage. Opposite him, Valkia the Bloody, the Bride of Khorne watched disdainfully, her innate hatred of Slaanesh and those who worshiped it barely held back as she toyed with a skull like it were a pebble, her curved horns reaching over her head, eager to gore and gut in the name of the Blood God. Festus the Leechlord sat amidst squalor, plague and filth, the stench of which would make the darkest of dark lords retch. Bubbles of pus and plague burst in showers of gore around him as his wart-ridden bodyguards. Meanwhile Vilitch the Curseling, the twisted, malformed sorcerer forever fused to the body of his twin body seemed unconcerned with the others, the champion of Tzeentch possibly involved with his master's visions of past and future. Any other time there would be a battle of epic proportions were these champions to come together, but before the will of the Everchosen, they stayed their wrath.

After a while, the Everchosen moved, his armoured boots crushing bone as he walked down the towards them. The Eye of Sheerian gleamed in his forehead as he stood before them. He was the champion of Chaos undivided, swearing allegiance to no one of the Dark Gods, but in many ways greater than them all. Only Archaon could assemble this grand host, drawn from all four of the dark powers. Only he could drive them forwards with his will and only he could command all their loyalties. When he spoke all listened. "The time has come," he declared. "Ready your hosts and armies and send out the vanguard. The End Times have come, and all those who defy the power of Chaos will burn. Valkia, you know what you must do?"

The Gorequeen nodded, stroking her weapon fondly. "I do, my hordes will descend upon Naggaroth shortly."

Archaon nodded. If Valkia could put enough pressure on the Dark Elves they would abandon their icy home to make another attempt on Ulthuan, and if the Elves could be embroiled in Civil War then that was one less foe for him to face. "Festus, go, make your final preparations for the Plague assault on the world."

The Leechlord nodded. "As you command, in the name of almighty Nurgle."

"Sigvald, make ready your hosts to march with us, Curseling, you as well. I want us moving as soon as possible."

He marched past the champions of the gods without a second glance, they would serve his plans as he required it, there were others who required his attention. This army would take weeks or months to whip into direction, he had other agents to send out to ensure that, when it hit with full force, there was no one capable of resisting it. The three agents he needed to send were waiting for him. The Black Knight stood tall and proud as the race of Bretonnia was want to do, but the Eye of Sheerian saw the fury and rage encased within the metal shell. He would be a blunt instrument, but needed the least prodding of all of the three of them, having come willingly to the Chaos Wastes, just as Archaon had himself. The other two were emissaries of their people, with demands to meet. The tusked dwarf, clad in his armour of cursed runes glowered at him, but Archaon had no pity for those who claimed to be victims of being kept waiting. He had been waiting since the time of Magnus, longer than anyone else. The rat was the most unreliable. The innumerable race of people had ambitions, certainly, a low cunning and heartlessness accompanied their desire to be the dominant power in the world. Even their innumerable hordes, deployed for years against the Lizardmen and Dwarf holds, had limits to what they could achieve. But they were also cowards, and so had come to bow before his host before it had even marched. They would serve their purpose.

"You are ready?" He asked them.

"I have been waiting for too long," The knight swore, his fist clenching. "I will free my people from the lies of what we have served and bring them truth."

Archaon turned to the dwarf. "And you?"

The dwarf snorted, smoke puffing from its nose. "We are. Our forges have been working night and day. We will march before long."

"You will march now," Archaon replied. "Between you and your bretheren stand the Ogre Kingdoms, those mercenaries will have to be dealt with. Now. Return to your people and pass my command to them." The Dwarf clearly was angry at being commanded so, but accepted with an angry nod.

The Everchosen turned to the last of his agents. This was the one he trusted the least, but the rat people alone had the resources to carry out his will where he needed them to. Unlike the other two he didn't have to speak. The quivering rat spoke before him. "We know your wishes, Lord Everchosen, we will not fail."

"See that you don't. Bring Tilea and Estalia to ruin and then prevent the undead from interfering. If you wish to continue your assaults on the Dwarf holds and the Lizardmen then do so, I will not stop you. But Tilea, Estalia, Nehekhara, these you must deliver. Now go," he dismissed them before he had to hear any more of their squeaking. Soon. Soon he would be rid of them... rid of everything, and Chaos would reign."

 _Karaz-a-Karak_

As Kingsmeets went, this was better than most, Ungrim Ironfist thought as he sat on his stone bench. Most were repetitive at best, but this one was different by the inclusion of one of the ancient and proud elgi of Elthuan. This King Finubar held himself tall amidst the Dwarfs, and Ungrim could tell that it rankled many of the others. King Kazador in particular had no patience for it, his fists clenching and unclenching as the elf spoke to the assembled Dwarf kings. Ungrim couldn't help but be impressed with the elf. He spoke in just the right way to the right king. He assuaged Kazador's rage and emasculated himself in the eyes of the proud king. When he turned to King Byrrnoth of Barak Varr he praised their hospitality and the skill and discipline of his escort, eager to open trade and commerce with the sea-bound dwarf-kin of that hold. Instinctively he knew which Kings would only be angered by his comments and passed them over and which would require a passing notice. When he turned to the head of the table and High King Thorgrim, he showed all due deference. "I am truly honoured and privileged to be allowed to visit your halls, High King," he said, bowing low at the waist. "I have long wondered what caused my ancestors to betray your noble trust, and I can only conclude that it was jealousy, what you have shown me of your craftsmanship outshines anything that could be produced on Ulthuan."

Thorgrim acknowledged his praise with a curt nod. The dwarfs would never fully trust the elgi of Ulthuan again, and everyone in the room knew it, but for centuries, the elgi had defended their own position on the War of Vengeance. Even so, the Ulthuani seemed to desire a rapprochement of sorts if their king was willing to come here and say such to them. "Your words do you credit, King Finubar," Thorgrim replied, one hand resting on the Dammaz Kron ominously. "And I have thought long on your proposal, and have decided that I will accept a permanent ambassador from Ulthuan to my court."

Only shock kept at least three of the nearby kings from leaping out of their seats in protest. "I thank you, High King Thorgrim," Finubar said, bowing once more.

Thorgrim waved it off. "As you say. Now, you will forgive us, but there are Dawi matters that must be discussed, if you would." Finubar nodded and swept away, his silent escort at his shoulders passing through the gathered courtiers, advisors, Thanes and the second cousins of Thanes that had wormed their way into the Kingsmeet.

"This is an outrage!" Burst King Kazador as soon as the doors had closed again. "The Elgi! A permanent place here! An outrage!"

"We heard, King Kazador," Ungrim spoke. He was in no mood for Kazador's bluster. "But Karaz-a-Karak is the High King's realm and it is not your place to accept or reject his desires on it."

"You wouldn't accept such oversight into your own realm," King Byrrnoth added. Alone amongst the Kings he seemed genuinely impressed with King Finubar.

Kazador grumbled and sat back down when he saw the matter was already decided. Thorgrim moved the Kingsmeet on.

"This Kingsmeet looks to be the greatest sign of hope for our people yet," he said. "My armies have swept the last few tribes from the Silver Road with ease, the greenskins are retreating and new fortifications have been erected. From what I have heard, many of the rest of you have more good news for us. Ungrim. Just last year you broke a great chaotic host, what news have you for us now?"

Ungrim nodded, though the memory was a sour one. He'd been denied the chance to kill or be killed by the great beast that led the Chaos horde by the intervention of the exile Gotrek Gurnisson who had saved his life and slain the beast. He had waned to throw the slayer in irons for his unwanted help, but Gurnisson was chained by fate, and what was a king to do against that? "Our borders are also silent, High King," he said to the Kings. "As you know my realm watches over Sylvania, the cursed land of the Zanganaz, and it is quiet, as quiet as I have ever seen it. If I didn't know better I'd say the dead have finally returned to their rest."

It unsettled him. He had long considered it part of his duties to make sure that the wretched realm of the cursed von Carsteins remained quiet. The Dwarfs of Karak Kadrin had assisted their ancient allies in breaking the last of them, Mannfred, at Hell Fenn some time ago. But the quiet was unnatural, his rangers could normally find evidence of feuds and rivalries between the various petty vampire lords, but now... nothing.

King Belegar of the Eight Peaks was speaking when Ungrim returned his attention to the Kingsmeet. "We have reclaimed another great hall of the Eight Peaks," he said with pride. "The ratmen and grobi have fallen back to fighting one another, leaving us time to reinforce and secure our new gains, rest, lick our wounds and honour our dead. My runesmiths believe that in this hall is the burial chamber of King Lunn's great grandsire, lost for centuries, now returned to us." Even though he had no links to the Eight Peaks, Ungrim felt his heart swell at the recovery of the lost heirlooms of old. It was news repeated by other kings as well. King Alrik of Karak Hirn had led an expedition that recovered two hundred survivors of a great mining expedition thought lost for more than three decades. While the loss of life was mourned they brought wealth back in abundance for the hold. The norscan holds reported a great victory against the tribesmen that drove them into the Chaos wastes. Even King Kazador had news worth celebrating, having found more tunnels, untouched by ratmen or grobi beneath Karak Azul. Every hold reported that the Ratmen attacks had slowed and ceased, with King Baraudin of Zhufbar destroying a Skaven nesting pit after a great battle, sealing up the tunnels behind them.

Ungrim knew he should feel relieved and encouraged by the new triumphs of the Dawi, but he couldn't. Not yet. Something was wrong with it all, this was not the victory the Dwarfs had longed for since the fall of the Karaz Ankor, this was something else. Once more, his thoughts returned to Sylvania and what the von Carsteins might be planning there.

 _Castle Drakenhof – Sylvania_

Mannfred looked out from the parapet of Drakenhof's tallest tower over Sylvania, his land. It was all his by blood right, every river and stream and thicket, every tree and town and turret was his to command, to raise up or tear down as he wished it. Before him it had been the madman Konrad's, and before him... Vlad. Vlad, the thought of his mentor made his lip curl. In everything he was measured up to his sire, in ambition, in drive... in success. In all but magic was he found wanting. First he had tried to do what the two of them could not and take the Empire for his own. But he had failed, just as Konrad and Vlad had done. But unlike them, he had risen again from his defeat at Hell Fenn and Sylvania was his once more. I did what you could not, Vlad, I rose again. _Did you?_ Came the voice in his head. _You once nearly had an empire, and you are right back here._ He reigned in his anger. It was bad enough hearing that voice in the bowels of Drakenhof, it had to follow him everywhere he went now. But soon he would prove the voice wrong. Soon not only Sylvania but the rotten Empire and the whole world would bow to Mannfred von Carstein and Vlad would be forgotten. But right now all he had was Sylvania, and this would be where he worked his rituals and plans. And no one would interfere, not even the interloper.

He had first detected the invader not long ago, crossing the border from Averland. Whoever it was they were powerful, so powerful that he had almost not detected them crossing the border, able to cloak themselves well. But at the same time they had too much power to be hidden fully. Mannfred could have confronted him immediately, but chose instead to bide his time, gather his power and see what the individual wanted. The latter soon became readily apparent as he made his way to Drakenhof directly, not impeded by road or patrol or river. Now he was close and Mannfred would dispense with this invader and crush him under his iron boot. He called his hellsteed to him on the balcony, the holes in the undead mount's flesh winking at him like a wanton whore. He regularly sortied from Drakenhof when it pleased him. None would question his absence or his return, and none would know that an intruder had dared cross into Sylvania. He pulled himself up onto the beast's back and with an unspoken command it unfurled it's wings and leapt into the night.

He sped across Sylvania with the vast speed that only an undead mount could bring. Perhaps the pegasi of Bretonnia could rival them for a speed, but they would tire in the end, his own mounts would not. They needed no rest or food or drink, only his power to sustain them, and if there was one thing that Mannfred von Carstein didn't lack, it was power.

He met the intruder at the opposite end of a sturdy stone bridge. He wasn't alone. That surprised Mannfred, he had thought when he'd been able to sense the intruder he'd only sensed the one. Perhaps diluting his power to shield his party was what made Mannfred able to detect him in the first place. No matter. He would deal with them all in turn if necessary. But when he recognised the leader, the being behind the magical veil, he couldn't help the smile that came across his face. "It has been some time since I saw you last, liche."

" _I have counted the years, Vampire,"_ Arkhan the Black replied, his skeletal jaw unmoving, the words boring into Mannfred's skull. _"Have you come to surrender?"_

He snarled. He had last met Arkhan the Black before he died the first time. The liche had ever been powerful and possibly the most driven thing that Mannfred had ever met, constantly fixating on one single goal, the restoration of the Great Necromancer. He always would have found his way here, given what Mannfred had spent much time gathering. "Surrender?" He asked. "You enter my realm and ask me to surrender? You always had nerve, liche. It is you, you fleshless vagabond, who should kneel."

" _I owe fealty to only one, and you are not him,"_ Arkhan replied. _"I am here to reclaim what is mine."_

"Oh," so he was right in his suspicions. "And what might that be?" Better to hear it from the liche in person.

Arkhan held up a hand and counted off on his fingers. _"A suit of armour, a severed hand and nine books of blood inked flesh."_ Mannfred was right, as he knew he would be.

"Those are mine," Mannfred said simply. "Why should I turn them over to you?"

Arkhan's next words were expected but still sent a shiver down his spine. _"Nagash must return."_

"I am already making moves to that end," Mannfred replied. "I have no need of you, liche, return to your tower in the desert. I'll summon you if I need you."

" _I'm here now."_ Arkhan didn't move, his staff planted softly into the cold stone of the bridge, his companions stepping back. _"And I know what you don't. One requires more than artefacts to restore the necromancer."_

Mannfred scoffed. Those artefacts all held Nagash's will. That monster had a habit of imparting his will onto anything he touched. Restoring the closest artefacts to him would be sufficient. Once he had the final one, he would have everything he needed. Mannfred bit down on his tongue to prevent him growling in anger as Vlad's voice penetrated his skull more deeply than Arkhan's ever could. _But do you know that it will be enough?_ "Whatever I need I'll find," Mannfred snarled at Arkhan.

" _But you don't know what you're looking for,"_ Arkhan cut across him, standing his ground. _"I do. And we have no time for waiting or hunting. We must act now. Or the realms of the dead will fall silent. You know of what I speak."_

He did. The northern invaders. He had recognised the signs. Kislev's borders were beset by horrors and armoured warriors, the villages of Norsca were deprived of warriors who had gone to answer some call or other and the plains of the Kurgan were wide and flat and empty, they had all been called somewhere, and only one thing could unite these warriors and call forth the demonic entities, Chaos. Mannfred scoffed. "The northmen will be repelled, as will their demonic allies as they always are." Mannfred had studied the Empire, and for all it's weakness it had one glimmering strength. Karl Franz. Apart from himself, Franz was the most ruthless man in the world. If it cost him Ostermark, Ostland and Nordland, he would destroy these invaders, just as he would happily sacrifice Stirland and Averland to lance the boil of Sylvania if it rose it's head again. Mannfred didn't have the strength to resist Franz were he to deploy the might of the Empire against Sylvania. But once he had the power of Nagash...

Arkhan the Black continued. _"Not this time."_ He pulled a grotesque severed head from within his cloak, one of the beastmen, the children of Chaos. _"Beastmen are mindless, yet this one and his warband stalked me across the Border Princes, the Badlands and Averland. Sent after me by the Dark Gods because they know my purpose. They fear the return of Nagash because he has the power to stop them. A world of the dead has no power for them. They have set aside their squabbles in order to finally bring ruin to the world. Nagash must return, and he cannot be half here. He must come back with full strength in order to stop them, and for that you need my help."_

More power was not unappealing to Mannfred. If he was to have Nagash's power, he should have it all after all. Perhaps the liche could be of some use. But first he would have to be reminded who was the more powerful of the duo. "I do not need you. I need nothing!" He lashed out with a dark bolt of power which struck Arkhan in the chest, leaving a dark purple hue in the air, but no visible damage.

" _Is that all?"_ Arkhan asked.

"Not even close," Mannfred replied and launched his assault on the Liche. More spells followed the first, hurled from atop Mannfred's mount. Arkhan took every spell and returned them with interest. Incantations he had not uttered for centuries past his lipless mouth as he matched the lord of Sylvania spell for spell... and was found wanting. Arkhan felt a flitter of surprise at Mannfred's power. He had underestimated the vampire. Was this Nagash's challenge, to separate the wheat from the chaff?

Eldritch storms and dark sorceries clashed above the bridge as the two masters of death battled for supremacy. Mannfred ripped the recently slain from the ground and sent them hurtling at Arkhan who replied with corpses of his own. Both knew that the corpses were mere distractions, Mannfred and Arkhan were too powerful to be brought down by shambling, rotting husks, but they might provide an opening. Mannfred hacked Arkhan's puppets apart as they came and continued hurling spell after spell at Arkhan, each one striking with a force that would obliterate a mortal in an instant.

Not since Vashanesh had Arkhan met a vampire with such power, even Neferata, cold and beautiful Neferata hadn't matched this. Vampires were powerful beings but they had reservoirs of dark magic to draw upon. Even with time there was a limit to what they could hold, a limit Mannfred had shed it seemed. But he seemed to be drawing his power from somewhere... ah yes, Arkhan realised. The sky. Mannfred had sealed off Sylvania. Thanks to Nagash's curse they would burn in the rays of the sun, but Mannfred had blocked the sky from Sylvania with a cloud of dark magic, a massive force from which he could draw at this moment. This was it then. Arkhan had only to outlast Mannfred a while before he could bring the vampire to his senses.

Mannfred snarled as he was forced to draw more and more power from the sky. He had hoped to beat the Liche into submission by now, but millennia of service to Nagash's whispered had made him stubborn to the last and he still held his ground, hurling spells at him time and time again.

A sudden flash of burning pain cast across Mannfred's face. This wasn't one of Arkhan's spells, this was something else, something raw. In horror he redirected his spells to the sky, sealing the breach that had just emerged. _Oh dear boy_ , Vlad chuckled. Mannfred had drawn too much power from the sky and let the rays of the sun through. He looked back at Arkhan. The liche had an opening to strike but he hadn't taken it, instead he had planted his staff on the cracked stone of the bridge and stared at him. _"We are done here, Vampire."_

Mannfred stepped back. He could finish this now. Draw the final strength from the sky and blast Arkhan into the nothingness that he deserved. But the sun's rays would kill him and his world in days without his power to maintain it. "We are, liche," he replied, stepping back and sheathing his sword. "A truce?"

" _Of course, Mannfred, a truce. We have a far more important matter to deal with."_

"Indeed," Mannfred forced a smile onto his face. "Nagash."

" _Nagash."_


	2. 1-2

_Ulthuan – Lothern_

Aliathra watched the waves roll into Lothern's harbour lazily before coming to rest against the hulls of the great vessels of the port city. Right now those ships were carefully lined up at port, or calmly moving in and out of the great harbour, but she had never forgotten the sight of the port aflame, of the great Black Arks holding a tight blockade of the harbour while the army of the Druchii surrounded the city. They'd had only passing news of the rest of the island, but eventually Prince Tyrion had come with the army to save the city. She had been barely a hundred then, when her father told her to be brave before leading a sally out from the city to assist the great warrior of their people in repelling the vile Witch King of Naggaroth. The city had been rebuilt since then, but the scars of memory would never fade, not even in the long life of an Asur.

"My lady," Lord Adana spoke softly from behind her. "Your mother wouldn't want you to be here."

"Do you serve my mother now, Adana?" Aliathra asked, turning to him with a smile. "I thought you served the Phoenix King, not the Everqueen."

Adana's thin face tightened beneath his helm. "I serve Ulthuan, my lady," he replied, still softly. "But it was your father who appointed me to serve you, yes."

She nodded. "So we won't say a thing to mother, I want to be here. Besides, they do serve my father," she gestured to the halberd bearing phoenix guard that her father had assigned to her, the four silent sentinels he had ordered to protect her above all others, even himself. Not even the Everqueen could presume to command the Phoenix Guard, they were her father's soldiers. But they were silent, and Lord Adana of the Swordmasters provided much more personable company.

After a pause, Lord Adana inclined his head. "As you command it, my lady."

It irked Aliathra how much people expected her to follow her mother around like a dog on a leash. True she would inherit Avelorn from her one day, but she wasn't a servant. It didn't help that she looked so much like her. She had spent hours in front of mirrors trying to find a trace of her father in her face, but she couldn't find anything. Her mother assured her that all Everqueens bore the same face, since the time of Aenarion and before. "We'll return to Avelorn before long, Lord Adana," she promised, reaching out and touching her guardian's arm gently.

A sudden heat flared against her chest and she reached down to touch the phoenix amulet. She smiled as she felt the warmth coursing through the metal and turned to look out over the seas. Lothern sat perfectly positioned between the inner sea and the wide ocean, controlling the trade and shipping that came from both. Aliathra turned her gaze southwards to the ocean, scanning the horizon for the sails that were coming in. "Is something the matter, my lady?" Adana asked.

"No," she replied with a smile, holding the amulet up. "Father's returning."

Without another word her escort accompanied her to the docks far below. Lothern was one of the largest cities in the world, certainly the most magnificent, with gleaming spires, glittering walls, huge theatres and opera halls and grand market squares. The Lothern Sea Guard walked the streets, their spears sharp, bows strung and shields polished. The people bowed to her and whispered behind their hands as their beloved Everchild, the daughter of their King walked the streets. It was always a point of pride to one of the Kingdoms of Ulthuan when their prince was chosen as the Phoenix King, for Lothern and Eataine that was her father, Finubar the Seafarer.

They reached the dock just as her father's vessel was putting to port, a detachment of Phoenix Guard waiting for him and a thin white line of Sea Guard keeping passing citizens away. She smiled as her father, resplendent in a diplomat's robes of gold and white, with flames licking at the hem descended onto the jetty. As his attendants started unloading the ship, including items she didn't recognise, carved metal with strange markings on them. From what she could tell they were dwarven runes. Her father had said that the Karaz Ankor was part of his planned expedition, had they bestowed a gift to them, perhaps even returning the Phoenix Crown they had stolen at the end of the War of the Beard. Her father smiled as he approached. "Aliathra." He sounded weary, like the all the centuries of his rule weighed heavily on his shoulders.

"Father," she replied, hugging him quickly. He hugged her back with a reassuring squeeze. "It's good to see you."

"And you," her father replied, "though it's a surprise to see you here."

"Why a surprise? You gave me this after all," she fingered the Phoenix pendant's chain around her neck.

Finubar smiled and nodded. "I did. Though I wondered if your mother would be keeping you busy."

"Oh she tries," she replied falling in step with her father as he made his way off the jetty and into Lothern, the dutiful White Lions close behind them. "But she has her own duties to see to, she can't keep an eye on you all the time."

"And Prince Tyrion, he was always fond of you, if your mother asked him to watch over you, no doubt he would."

Aliathra scoffed. "Please, the hero of Ulthuan has more important things to be worried about than me. He may be mother's consort but he is not my father."

"You shouldn't speak so harshly of Prince Tyrion, he is a hero for a reason," her father reminded her. "And don't lessen yourself either. You are the Everchild of Ulthuan, any Asur would lay down their life to protect yours. Besides," he continued. "I may have somewhere for you to go as a representative of Ulthuan, where neither of them will be able to watch over you."

"A representative?" She asked.

He nodded. "Yes as..." he cast a look over her shoulder. "Ah, it seems I am needed." She turned. Belannaer, the second Arch-Mage behind Loremaster Teclis himself was stood at the end of the pier, his long pale hair hanging down his robes and his staff held firmly in his grip. Belannaer was her father's closest advisor, but he'd not accompanied him on this latest excursion. "If your duties permit it, perhaps we can dine tonight, and I'll tell you all about my latest excursion, and my plans for you."

Aliathra bowed her head. "I'd be happy to. I'll see you then."

 _Later that day_

"Karaz-a-Karak?" Aliathra asked after they'd finished their dinner.

Finubar nodded. The idea had been in his head when he'd started negotiating with the Dwarfs. The Asur were, like the Dwarfs, dwindling in number. The great warriors he had at his disposal, Tyrion, Eltharion, Alith Anar, Imrik of Caledor, were all needed for the defence of Ulthuan, just as his Arch-Mages were. Belannaer would have been his first choice of them, but he would have refused. "Why not?" He asked her. "You think you are unprepared?"

"No it's just... I'd never have thought that was what you wanted," she replied. He let the thought sink in for her. "What are they like?" She asked, finally. "The stories, are they true?"

Finubar smiled sadly. "I fear not. I fear much of what we knew was wrong." The shock he had felt when he walked the Old World would never fade were he to live for another thousand years. The humans had not been in mud huts, trying to scratch out a living from the ground. Instead he had found gleaming spires and disciplined armies. In Bretonnia he had witnessed men blessed with great power lead cavalry charges unlike anything the Ulthuani could match. In the Empire he saw disciplined armies of footmen repelling Orc Waaaghs and Chaotic incursions. Unlike the Asur, their borders were expanding. Where the Asur cities were emptying due to depopulation, the Humans were building them as fast as rabbits breeding. The Asrai in Athel Loren had been nearly as strange to him as the humans had been and the Dwarfs... "You have met humans, but I fear we have more in common with the Dwarfs than we do with them. We are both races in decline, struggling to maintain what we have left."

Aliathra sat back, her radiant beauty shining through even when she wasn't trying. Finubar was taken back to when he'd first been chosen as the Phoenix King and it was known that he was going to be with the Everqueen, Alarielle the Radiant lived up to her name. As a child, every Ulthuani boy wished to be the Everqueen's consort, and Finubar had been, if only for a year. But then even that had turned out to be a lie, but a lie he had to keep secret from everyone, for if Ulthuan knew that Aliathra wasn't his, then their world would soon come crumbling down. And if Aliathra knew he may lose her, and that was unacceptable.

"Unless you'd not like to go, of course," he added, seeing that she looked a little conflicted.

"Of course I want to go!" She replied, getting to her feet. "I've never seen any of the world beyond these shores. I remember the stories you told me as a child, of the sands of Nehekhara, of the jungle canopies of Lustria, of the boughs of Athel Loren and the cities of the Empire, of Bretonnia's chivalric displays and the great architecture of the Dwarf realms. I've always wanted to, but I never thought I'd get the chance to see it. Will the other princes allow it?"

"The Princes won't have a say," he assured her. "Besides, negotiation and diplomacy are traditionally the forte of the Everqueen, they dislike your mother's martial activities and would welcome the idea that you won't follow it."

Aliathra nodded. She knew that much. The princes accepted it on the surface, but many, like Imrik of Caledor were deeply distrustful of the Everqueen, fearful that their traditions would be uprooted by her. "Will mother allow it?" She asked.

"I'm talking to your mother soon. I'll discuss the matter with her then," he assured her. Technically foreign diplomacy was his domain, but Alarielle could make his life very difficult if she chose to, and she likely would if he went ahead with this without consulting her. Such was the dynamic of the two monarchs of Ulthuan, it was wearisome, but better that than the tyranny of the Witch King.

* * *

 _Sylvania – Castle Drakenhof_

"I know full well we don't have everything, Liche," Mannfred growled. "We are still missing the Crown of Sorcery."

" _And the Fellblade,"_ Arkhan added absently. Atop Drakenhof's tallest tower, Arkhan surveyed the surroundings. _"We need to find that as well."_

Mannfred bared his fangs. "Given your infinite knowledge on this matter, I assume you know where it can be found?"

" _I do,"_ Arkhan replied, turning to him. _"And as such, I shall retrieve it. You will go and fetch the Crown of Sorcery from the Imperial Vaults in Altdorf. And while you're at it, you will bring me the bearer of Sigmar's Blood._

"So while I attend to two tasks you shall attend to only one?"Mannfred asks.

Arkhan shook his head. _"Of course not, the tasks will be divided equally, I simply have another task that I must see to as well, for it will take more than one sacrifice to fuel Nagash's return."_

So Arkhan required another sacrifice did he? It mattered not to Mannfred, if there was one thing he could trust Arkhan to do it was facilitate the return of Nagash, he would do whatever was required to that end. "So be it. When do you leave?"

" _Now."_ Arkhan replied. _"I trust you will not tarry for too long."_

He swept away in that instant, his personal soldiers coming with him leaving Mannfred alone atop Drakenhof. Well, almost alone. "You don't really trust him, do you?" Came Elize von Carstein's silken voice.

"Of course not." Mannfred scoffed turning to Elize. The redhead had been Isabella's handmaiden in past centuries, the first that Isabella had turned after Vlad had granted her the Blood Kiss. She had long been the steward of Drakenhof, keeping it secure between the reigns of the von Carteins. That she had survived Konrad's madness and his own campaign to purge the excess vampires from Sylvania spoke to her talents. Mannfred was careful not to underestimate her. "No more than I intend to let him restore Nagash." He stepped up close to Elize, stroking her pale cheek softly. "Don't fear, Elize, it will be the von Carsteins who benefit from Arkhan's ritual. We won't be leashed to a god of death."

She nodded, her eyes dark. "I trust that you won't. And before you ask, yes, I've summoned Sofie, Markus and the others."

Mannfred nodded. Sofie and Markus had just what he needed to infiltrate Altdorf's vaults and the others coming with him were the ones he trusted least, better to have them under his eye than plotting back in Sylvania. "And the other issue?"

Elize gave a whistle. The rush of air made him look up as three Fellbats approached, a heavy lump carried between them. Mannfred hated those bats, Vlad had such a queer fondness for them, but he couldn't deny that they had their uses. They dropped the lump at his feet and it grunted in pain. He recognised the coat and hat well - a Witch Hunter of Sigmar. Despite how quiet he'd been keeping since is resurrection, there were still monsters that prowled Sylvania, and some lesser vampires as well, and the Sigmarites were careful to keep watch over Sylvania. For the most part he let them be, killing them all would draw attention and most met grizzly ends as it was, especially in the days since he had darkened the skies. But now he had uses for one of them, and this one had been getting close to uncovering his return, something he'd still like to keep secret from the Empire for now.

"What is your name, mortal?"

The witch hunter spat at his feet. "Sigmar damn you, vampire."

"He did that long ago," Mannfred assured him. The man was scrabbling for something so Mannfred pressed on his wrist with his boot, making him moan in pain.

"Just kill me, von Carstein!" He growled.

"Oh I shall," Mannfred said. "But not yet. Though I admit, I am impressed you know me."

"I know. And soon, so will the world."

"Indeed they shall." The Witch Hunter's defiance slackened.

"What do you mean?" He asked, his voice quivering despite his defiance. His one defence, that others would soon learn of Mannfred's return was gone like smoke and ash in the wind.

"You will learn soon enough." He nodded at Elize and she cursed him asleep with a twitch of her fingers.

Two skeletal servants shambled over and heaved the Witch Hunter between them. "Take him to the courtyard. There is one matter I must attend to before I also depart."

"And Drakenhof, my lord?" Elize asked as the skeletons hauled the unconscious mortal away.

He smiled at her. "Why I leave it in your capable hands Elize, as always."

There was just one more stop Mannfred had to make before leaving. He descended into the bowls of Drakenhof, past the powerful sentinels he had left to ensure no one, not even those he trusted to betray him least, could pass. If any of the ilk in Drakenhof's brood knew what he had hidden down here they would use it against him in an eyeblink.

He opened the last door to the darkest dungeon, a large cobwebbed chamber lit only by the spells constantly humming in it. He couldn't help the smile that graced his features at the sight that greeted him. A web of dark swirling power hung from the pillars and walls, tendrils wrapping themselves around the naked body, swinging several inches from the ground, his formerly beautiful noble features emaciated and feeble, is hair thin and brittle and his muscles loose and weak. There were no feet at the bottom of his legs, only cauterised stumps left from when Mannfred had sliced them off. The sight of the great Vlad von Carstein brought so low never failed to please Mannfred.

It had required great effort to return Vlad to the world, effort that he would rather not have spent, but in being slain, Mannfred had lost the Carstein Ring, an artefact of great power and one that would greatly help him seize Nagash's power. Vlad and that ring had a deep connection and, by delving deep into the Nine Books of Nagash, Mannfred had been able to restore Vlad to some semblance of life, even without his body. He had loosed him on the world to find that Ring, following him constantly, ready to swoop, but he had underestimated Vlad, rather than remain a dog, his sire had regained some of his faculties and identities, and his smarts. After finding the ring he had escaped into Ostermark and drawn Mannfred into the path of a patrol of Ostermark soldiers. Mannfred had despatched them with ease, but when he caught up with the still weak Vlad, his sire had hidden his ring. Mannfred had brought him back to Drakenhof to rip the information from him, but Vlad had so far resisted his every effort.

"Vlad," he sneered as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Vlad looked at him with a weak and terrible gaze. "Boy," he rasped. His fingers curled into pitiful fists as his body swayed uselessly like a vine in the calmest breeze.

Mannfred approached calmly. He could do so as quickly or as slowly as he wanted, and Vlad couldn't do a thing to compel him either way. "So, are you ready to tell me where the Ring is yet, sire?"

He knew Vlad would only reply with a growl, but no matter how repetitive, Mannfred would never get bored of this conversation, and one day Vlad would be broken – either by time or by Mannfred's power. "I could end this for you in a moment, if you only tell me where to find that ring."

"When I am free, I will erase you. You will be a footnote, less than your concubine mother, less than nothing. All your power, all your drive will be forgotten. You will rue the day you had me murdered for but a moment before you face your utter ruin." This speech differed every time, but Vlad had little else to do but think of new ones.

"I'm amazed that my ambition surprises you."

Vlad let out a croak of a laugh, like sandpaper rasping on wood. "You do not know ambition, boy, only jealousy, and that is why you will fail."

Mannfred shook his head at Vlad's pitiful attempt at goading him. "We'll see, sire. One day I will have that ring. One day I will have everything. And then you can return to death."


	3. 1-3

_Nehekhara - Khemri_

The Liche Priests shuffled along the throne room of the great Settra the Imperishable, their souls dragging along hunched and wretched bodies that should have long since crumbled to dust. They had been waiting for over two hours as Herald Nekaph, the most honoured champion of Settra recited all his titles perfectly. Now he was finished, the priests bowed before their greatest king.

"There has been a change in the air." Settra's voice called out to them through his unmoving jaws, burrowing into their heads like maggots. They said nothing but all knew of what Settra spoke, the winds of magic had changed their song, sweeping south as they never had before. "It comes from the north. There is only one foe who could bring about such a change. Nagash." He spat the word like venom. The liche priests kept their heads bowed, for they all knew of Settra's irrepressible hatred for the Necromancer who had restored the Nehekaran royalty in such a mockery of its past life.

"We drove him away once before," Settra declared, his fingers tightening on his throne. "I will not see Nehekhara in another's hands, certainly not his. I will prevent him. Nehekhara must be mobilised as not seen in generations. Nagash is powerful." Settra was many things, brilliant, cruel, vain, bloodthirsty, proud, but his pride did not become hubris. He knew when his foes were strong. "You still serve for your errors, and you serve at my will. You will go from this place. You will go to every city and raise the lesser kings from each of them. Have their legions shake the sand from their bones and prepare."

"Every city?" One liche priest asked, not daring to look up at the Imperishable.

"Every one," Settra replied, power radiating from every syllable he spoke. "I will have them all, serving behind me." He stood up, tall and powerful. "Nekaph and I march on Arkhan's tower, that Liche will serve Nagash when he returns and I will prevent it. You will have the armies raised by the time I return or you will suffer my wrath."

He waved them away and the liche priests bowed their way out of Settra's throneroom. The Imperishable beckoned forwards his next servants who had been waiting to the side, stepped forwards. Ramhotep, the greatest of the Necrotects led his acolyte to prostrate themselves before the king of Khemri.

Settra glowered down at Ramhotep. When Settra had awoken and subdued the kings who had proven less than worthy he had the Necrotect brought before him, demanding to see the being that had sought to fashion such grand works across Nehekhara. Ramhotep had been cowed and nearly slain, but Settra, for all his pride, saw the talents that Ramhotep possessed, and had demanded his supplication and loyalty in exchange for sparing his life. "Necrotect. You will now prove yourself worthy of my own patronage. A great threat is coming and we must be prepared to face it. I want your warsphinxes. I want your Ushbati, your Necrosphinx and Colossi. Every Construct you have ever envisioned will be made ready to march to war for Nehekhara. I swore on a thousand souls that Nagash would never return and we will be ready to repel him and his ilk."

"As you command, oh almighty Settra," Ramhotep replied, bowing low. "My greatest designs are yours. We shall command the constructs of gold and bone, raise beasts of basalt and stone that will march at your will. Nagash would bring our works low, and our powers are yours to resist him."

Settra dismissed Rahmotep with a gesture. When he was alone with his sworn protectors he stood up. Settra didn't trust Rahmotep, the Necrotect had once made a pact with Arkhan the Black, the cursed Liche of the Black Tower to take his vengeance. Arkhan had long sold his services to the lesser kings for artefacts of power and wealth, using his power to aid them in their personal projects and endeavours. Countless times Settra had marched against the Black Tower to make Arkhan submit to him, but the cursed servant of Nagash had greater necromantic power than any of his own liche priests. No longer. If Nagash was to return, then Settra could no longer allow the boil of Arkhan to continue. "Nekaph, raise the army and have my chariot prepared. We are marching south." Without a word, Settra's herald departed to carry out his lord's wishes.

Outside the liche priests finally allowed themselves to rise to their full and feeble heights. "Every one," muttered Phar with his rasping voice.

"Every one," repeated Alakhaar. "So King Settra has spoken, so shall his will be done."

The liche priests scattered, venturing into the desert sands towards the other cities of Nehekhara: To Numas, Lybradas Zandri, Quatar and every other city, to awaken legions of sand and bone to defend Nehekhara and prepare for the approaching arrival of Nagash the cursed.

Rahmotep departed south with his acolytes to the Charnel Valley to raise their constructs. He had not lied. Nagash would seek the destruction of all that was Nehekhara, all they had ever built, every impact that they had made on the earth. That could not be allowed to happen, if it cost them their lives and souls they would destroy Nagash once more to preserve what they had built.

Not one week later a grand column departed Khemri, at it's head was Settra standing tall in the Chariot of the Gods and clutching the Blessed Blade of Ptra as he led his fleshless legions south, past the shadow of Nagash's black Pyramid towards the black tower of Arkhan the Black. It was a path Settra had marched before, every time the upstart Arkhan needed to be brought to heel. This time there would be no submission, no waiting, he would smash his way through Arkhan's foul sorceries and destroy the Liche once and for all. Then he could turn his attention to the upstart Nagash and punish him for destroying his paradise.

 _Naggaroth - Naggarond_

Morathi strode through her son's bastion with the confidence of millennia driving her onwards. It was not often that she was drawn down from her Tower of Ghrond, but now her son needed her to fuel his flames once again. He was falling hatefully passive and immobile and she had not spent thousands of years driving him on to fall flat, once more she would rouse his hate and set him on the path to his destiny.

The heads of the Black Guard turned as she walked past, drawn to her exposed flesh, lust burning within them, for even her son's bodyguards did not deny themselves lust, they were not of the get of prudish Ulthuani, they recognised their desires. In a less delicate time she could have amused herself with the armoured warriors, but for now she had to speak with Malekith, so she set her feet upon the stairs and ascended towards the Witch King's personal retreat.

Her son was waiting atop the tower, silhouetted against the cold grey sky like a dark shadow, his armoured form staring out to the crashing waves and mists of the sea in the direction of his heart's desire – Ulthuan, the home that should have been his to rule. He didn't turn to her as she stepped up behind him. "Why are you here?" He asked.

"I have news, from the north," she replied, angered that her own son wouldn't turn to face her. "There has been an incursion."

"Daemons," he replied, unmoving, still staring out to the seas. "I already know."

That didn't surprise Morathi, her son kept an eye on everything that happened in Naggaroth, he had to, for around every corner there was a knife that waited to murder him and take his place. What did surprise her was his inaction. Daemons were a great threat, and unlike the Ulthuani they were not ready sacrifices, banishing back to the realm of Chaos before any delicious pain could be inflicted on them. "And yet you do nothing."

"I do all I need to." He replied the embers of rage flickering in his voice. It was not enough, she needed him to be an inferno of fury and hate. "The weak will fall, the strong will rise and continue to be useful to me."

"Now is not the time for this." She scolded him harshly. "I thought you stronger than to permit an intruding army."

She heard his breath hitch and his head begin to turn ever so slightly in her direction. She stepped up to his side. Her son was the most cursed of the Druchii. To save his life she had sealed him in his Armour of Midnight when the cursed flames of Asuryan had wreathed his body in pain. Pleasure was beyond him now, the soft, warm touch of a body beneath his strong hands. It would be so much easier to fuel his flame if she could only give him that. "Look over this land." She told him. Dominion and power, they were all he had now. "Look at the swirling wind and jagged ice. It is yours."

" _Ulthuan_ is mine," he replied harshly.

"It is _all_ yours, every fjord and drop of water. This world is yours, even this ice. But even with you here, there are those who would dare to try and take it from you. If you're as weak as your enemies say you are then you'll let it happen."

His hand lashed out like a serpent and wrapped around her neck, digging into her skin, the sharp metal scraping against her. "Do not call me weak again, Hag Queen," he snarled, his armoured mask making his voice seem far more ominous, like he was a great dragon imprisoned at the base of a great pit. She had to set him free. The pain was good, a warning that he could spill her blood in an instant, but he needed more rage, she needed to feel her neck about to snap, her windpipe cut off by his grip and her blood pumping in her arteries, rushing through her ears and flooding her brain. Then he would be restored.

"I will call you weak as long as you are," she hissed at her son, her gaze not faltering from his eyes. "I raised you to be a king and yet here you are, doing nothing."

"I am doing all I need to do."

"You are failing!" His grip held her fast, tightening around her windpipe. "You are weak, a fool, a coward!" She grunted in pain as her son slammed her into the black stone at the top of his tower.

"Silence!"

"Show me," she dared him. "Take up your sword and show me that you aren't." He dragged her to the edge of the tower and held her out as though she was a twig, her feet dangling in the air, the black spires of Naggaroth far below her ready to impale her if he let her go.

But she didn't look down, he wouldn't drop her, he relied on her too much, and he was a fool to let that weakness into his heart. "Enough of this game, we both know that you won't drop me."

 _Come on my son, remind yourself why you are the Witch King_. "You aren't even a king anymore. No true king would let anyone, not even a daemon, deny what he is. But you... you let your own mother, and with your inaction you let all of Naggaroth, all of the world know you for what you've become. Weak."

He roared and slammed her into the stone floor. A blinding pain flashed through her bones, but it would take more than that to kill Morathi. But she could see Malekith's eyes, shining with cruelty behind his mask. His hatred had been stoked, now she just had to direct it, focus it like a crystal on his enemies. "Yes," she hissed, leaning up as she felt his fingers did into her neck, nearly touching her bones and the blood pumped violently in her ears. "Go on; show them you are a fool. Murder your own mother while your enemies slaughter their way across your lands."

"I am no fool!"

"You are. Or are you going to prove otherwise?" He snapped his hand back like a viper and turned away. This time he didn't look out east, but to the north, to the invaders.

"I am no fool. And no one will see it that way. I will destroy these invaders." He turned once more and descended from the tower. Morathi allowed a smile to grace her lips. Only at his lowest was Malekith so foolish. Normally he would have savaged that demonic horde long ago, but every now and then his drive went cold and sluggish and she had to stoke it again. Best that she disappeared for now. Malekith was back, and if she stayed he might just lash out and kill her in one of his rages, bruises were already forming on her throat from where his fingers had been digging in. She smiled, her son was back.

 _Skavenblight_

The Council of Thirteen sat around their horseshoe shaped table of pure warpstone in the midst of a great squeaking debate. "The herald of the Dark Gods was clear in his meaning," gnashed Lord Sneek of the assassin Clan Eshin, his rat-eyes gleaming beneath his hood.

"We know he was," replied Lord Verminkin of Clan Moulder. "But if he knew our intention he would consider us just as much a rival as the manlings and bearded things he sends us against." Verminkin's heavily mutated body drew scorn from some clanlords and a mild admiration from others.

"My clan is gathered beneath the jungle," squeaked Nurglitch, the plaguelord of Clan Pestilens, his matted fur covered in gleaming pustules that threatened to burst like overripe grapes at the slightest touch. "Why should I bring them back across the seas now?"

At that point the Seerlord spoke up. Kritislick spoke for the Grey Seers of the Skaven and had the power to break any deadlock by deploying the thirteenth vote, the vote of the Horned Rat himself. "You shouldn't." He sat up taller, his tail sweeping along the dark stone floor like a bristled brush. "The herald can get his wish, let him believe us to be his. In the meantime, we proceed as the Horned Rat intends." The council shivered. They would move to stab each other in the back at every other time, but when it was the will of the Horned Rat, they were cowed into unity. "Our preparations are nearly complete. We will not be stalled by the herald or anyone else, the Horned Rat will be brought forth and the upperworld will be ours, as the underworld is. Give the herald what he wants, bring ruin to the manling realms that surround us has long been our desire."

"I can do it," proclaimed Paskrit the Vast. As his name suggested, Paskrit was the largest of the council, and he was also one of the most dangerous. Unlike the other Skaven here he belonged to no clan, but was instead the Warlord-General of all Skavendom. He had led the decimation of the warrens under the manling capital of Altdorf when the broods of Skaven there had dared to think that they were the equal of Skavenblight. Any other Skaven would have been killed for his position or because of the danger he posed to another in the never ending game of Skaven politics, but Paskrit had been able to navigate Skavenblight's bloodiest sport as well as he could a battlefield. "I will swarm these manling realms with enough clanrats to drown them in bodies."

"The time of ascendency has come!" Screeched Warlock-Engineer Morskittar of Clan Skyre. "The bearded ones as well, we must have them, we must!"

"And we will," assured Kritislick. Clan Skyre's advanced technological designs were of great benefit for the Skaven, but Kritislick knew that everyone on the council would kill Morskittar if the chance arose, and half of them may even be thinking about the Skaven when they did it. He was the oldest on the council, kept alive by pulsing green tubing that stuck into his furry body. But that age brought experience, he was the greatest of the Warlock-Engineers, but Kritislick had long wondered if it would be better if a younger one took his place. "Queek is still skulking around beneath the Eight Peaks, fighting the beared ones and the goblins. The bearded ones cannot interfere with us and we have been silent long enough. We'll attack again on all fronts. And Clans will swarm under the seas to join Pestilens beneath the forests. In the meantime we know who could return if the dead are not stopped. Clan Mordkin possesses the weapon that can destroy Nagash should he rise again. Make sure they keep it ready, we may need to use it once again. But that necromancer was in possession of some of the final knowledge we need. Send clans to his city, and the tower of his servant, find it."

The leaders of the greatest clans in Skavendom were slavering at the thought of dominion, and that would keep them well enough in line to fulfil their needs. "Lord Sneek, you can make the manling realms ripe for conquest?"

Lord Sneek nodded, his beady eyes gleaming at the prospect of murder. "Oh we can, we can."

"Then see to it, Paskrit, be ready to follow on."

"I will be," Paskrit declared, eying Sneek angrily, no doubt already plotting to make sure that he received the glory for the fall of the manling realms of Tilea and Estalia. As long as they did it, Kritislick didn't care, his purpose was greater than any of his fellow councillors, for he served the Horned Rat himself.

The Council gave their consent, Kratch Doomclaw and Vritch Ironsnatch refused to give their consent because their rivals had given theirs, but with a margin of nine to four, the vote passed.

That very day the swarms began. Runners were sent to the Clans festering under the mountain kingdoms to restart their assaults, greater than ever. Numberless hordes of rats descended beneath the seas to begin the journey west and join Pestilens in the new world, where they would battle the Lizardmen in their temple cities. At the whispers of Lord Sneek, the greatest of Skavendom's assassins emerged from the sewers of Tilea and Estalia for a night of bloody murder that would not be forgotten for the rest of those kingdoms' short lifespans. Behind them came the swarms of Paskrit the Vast. The world had relaxed as the Skaven held their breath, but now they would tremble as they swarmed and made the world a ruin – the perfect nesting ground for the manifestation of their god. The Horned Rat would emerge and claim the world that was rightfully his.


	4. 1-4

_Altdorf, the Imperial Capital - Reikland_

The hammering on his door drew the Grand Theogonist from his prayers. Volkmar's eyes cracked open. "What is it?" He demanded.

"A-a message your worship," came the voice from behind the door. It was young, that of a page boy at most. He snorted, he no longer had the influence he once had, but still, his servants knew better than to interrupt him at prayer, so they passed the task onto the nearest passerby.

He closed his eyes once more, it was late, messages could wait. "I am at prayer," he called back, "I will hear no messages." No doubt it was some useless petition from some far flung nowhere.

"All respect meant, your worship," came the voice, still quivering with fear. "But the message is from the Emperor."

That gave Volkmar pause. What would Franz be doing up so late? And why would he be sending for him? Regardless, he had lost a lot of his political clout in recent years, and refusing to attend when the Emperor called was not a wise decision at the best of times. He got to his feet and murmured a few more words of prayer before turning to the door, wrenching it open with such force the servant boy nearly fell on his behind with fright. "The message." The servant placed it in his outstretched hand and all but raced away when he gave him a dismissive wave. Volkmar looked down at the message, it was the Imperial seal alright, pressed into red wax. He broke it open and read the message. It was brief. Normally when Franz sent a summons it was written with an elegant scribe's hand, but this wasn't the hand of a scribe, indeed Volkmar recognised it at once. The spiked letters were those of Kurt Helborg, the Reiksmarshall. Apparently Volkmar was to come to the Imperial palace at once, with a witch hunter in tow. Helborg was Franz's closest confidante, if he was writing something had happened.

He picked up his jade staff of office and made his way to the dining halls. Witch Hunters operated at all hours, one could usually be found slaking their human desires for food and drink in the halls. Just his luck there was one there, a gnarled and grizzled man, his pistols laid on the table before him with his wide brimmed brown hat, a sword hung at his waist as he slurped at a bowl of soup. His thick brown overcoat was worn and dirty. He was an ideal man to accompany Volkmar on this. "Emil."

The witch hunter glanced at him. Emil Grussner had never been the most courteous, few witch hunters were, but he was a veteran, having hunted in the southern provinces of the Empire for most of the past two decades. He rarely came back to the temple, but it was a rare soul who could stay on the road forever. "Your worship," Emil replied, gesturing to the seat beside him.

Volkmar shook his head. "No, I need you, come with me."

Emil looked surprised the scars on his cheek from when he'd cleared the crypts of Johann Speltz twisting in a foul grimace. "Now?"

Volkmar liked the brevity of the man, even if the rest of him reeked of disrespect. "Now," he confirmed. "Franz has summoned me and instructed I bring a Witch Hunter." Emil glanced down at his soup then pushed the bowl away and got to his feet.

"Best not keep his majesty waiting." Any reverence he didn't show for Volkmar was present in full for Franz. He slotted his pistols into their holsters and pulled his hat onto his head. "Shall we?"

They left the temple into the streets of Altdorf, lit by the lantern of watchmen in the dark of the night striking off the shining cobbles but failing to bring the darkness of the back streets to light. Most of the city was in bed at this hour, what could possibly be needed of him. Thankfully he wouldn't have long to wait, the Imperial Palace was directly opposite the temple across a wide courtyard that was dominated by a statue of Sigmar himself, his hammer raised to the sun. By day this square would be dominated by a cross section of Altdorf's citizens, from flagellants proclaiming the doom of the world by temple steps through a sea of market stalls selling wares of all sorts as representatives of the guilds strutted themselves around pompously. But they had close up for the day and the square was largely empty. But not entirely. Towards the other end, by the palace there was a thin line of Reiksguard knights set in a crescent, as though holding back some invisible force. They stopped him as they approached. "Hold," declared one moustachioed knight, gesturing for the man to his side to raise his torch a little. "Apologies, your worship," the knight said, bowing his head in respect as Volkmar's face was cast in the orange hue of the torch. "His majesty said you would be coming, he's over there." He turned and gestured not to the Imperial palace itself but towards a small path leading down alongside it. Curious, Volkmar followed the path with Emil at his side as the line of knights sealed once again.

The Emperor wasn't alone. He was not just surrounded in a closer circle of knights but also by Reiksmarshall Helborg in person. "Volkmar," Franz greeted him with a curt nod, "you've come, good."

Volkmar nodded. "I have, and I've brought the witch hunter, but why are we- ah," he saw exactly why he'd been summoned, a corpse lay on the stones, wrapped in a thick brown coat with a wide brimmed hat, and empty holster and scabbard told him exactly who this was. It was a witch hunter. "What happened?"

"Hans Zintler was on his rounds when he found him," Helborg said, clearly troubled by the murder of a witch hunter so close to the palace. "He sealed off the area when he saw... this."

"Saw what?" Volkmar asked and approached. Using the tip of his blade Helborg lifted the brim of the witch hunter's hat and Volkmar stepped back in alarm. The hunter was pale as limestone, almost translucent. Even his lips had lost all their colour, and between them a roll of some kind of parchment was jammed down his throat. Volkmar could see where the muscles in the face had contracted in pain – a great deal of pain, but he still recognised the face. "Otto Brumder," he murmured. "He shouldn't even be in Altdorf, he should be in Ostermark."

Helborg grunted. "Well he's here now."

Volkmar ignored the jibe and turned to Emil. "See what did this."

Emil nodded and knelt beside his fellow witch hunter. Gently he pulled the parchment from Otto's mouth and passed it to Volkmar before continuing his examination of the body, peeling away the layers of clothing to see what happened. Volkmar examined the parchment and nearly dropped it in disgust. This was no parchment, it was dried and tanned skin... human skin, just as dried out and white a Otto's. When Emil pulled back Otto's coat Volkmar could clearly see where it had been flayed from his back. Whatever had done this had stripped his skin, written on it then forced it down his throat all while Otto still lived. The monster would face his retribution. No one did this to a servant of Sigmar's will without an appropriate response.

He was about to break the hard black seal when Franz stopped him. "No, Volkmar, not yet. I would have the Witch Hunter come to his own realisation before someone else takes credit."

Volkmar nodded as the witch hunter continued to examine the body. When he was done, Emil got to his feet, his expression grim. "Well?" Helborg asked as Franz looked on.

"Only one beast could do this. A vampire."

Volkmar curled his free hand into a fist. Those cursed beasts. Otto must have been caught on the Sylvanian border, but even so, to be brought all the way here without challenge was troubling. Since the death of Mannfred von Carstein, the last of Vlad's evil brood at Hell Fenn four centuries ago, Sylvania had become a pit of shades and conflict as lesser vampires turned on each other to claim his legacy. Normally they kept to their dark realm, even darkening the sky to better suit them. Though they were careful to let through the light so that plants could still grow to feed their peasants, or chattel to the beasts. Occasionally one would grow powerful but it never required Imperial intervention, the knightly orders and if necessary the Electors that surrounded them dealt with any uprising swiftly and brutally. For one of them to come and plant a corpse here was a challenge, was one of them trying to claim dominance by uniting the vampires against a full Imperial assault? It was possible.

Franz remained passive, only nodding at Volkmar. "Then let us see which of them has claimed responsibility, read the scroll, Volkmar."

Volkmar broke the seal and opened the roll of skin. _"Prince of Altdorf and Pretender to the Imperial Throne,"_ he read. The hand could not have been more different from Helborg, it was elegant and archaic calligraphy. _"I hereby lay claim to that which is mine. Sylvania thus secedes from thy petty Empire as do all who dwell within it, be they mortal or grave-bound. Let none dispute that they are mine by feudal law. Look to the east and thou shall see that I have drawn a shroud of night around my land, as to demark it from thine own of sunlight and hope._

" _If this fact displeases thee, then think on this. In mine veins runs blood red and noble, undiluted by that of drunkards and whores. Can any amongst you claim the same?_

" _I traversed thine Empire to claim what is mine, not stopped by sentinel or hunter or army. If you should dispute mine claim, then come and bandy your pitiful words with me, and I shall feast on thee in thy turn._

" _Your Eternal,_

" _Count Mannfred von Carstein_

" _The True and Rightful Lord of Sylvania."_

Silence greeted him when he looked back up at Franz. "Mannfred von Carstein, surely this cannot be?"

"Count Mannfred is four hundred years dead," Helborg agreed. "Everyone knows the Vampire Wars ended at Hell Fenn."

"And yet here is the handiwork of a vampire with a message claiming the name Mannfred taking credit for it," came a ravaged voice from behind them.

They all turned to look at the new arrival. "Gelt," Franz breathed, "how long have you been here?"

"Long enough," replied the Supreme Patriarch of the Colleges of Magic. Volkmar bristled at the sight of Balthasar Gelt, in his shimmering golden robes and that infernal golden mask and halo that he never took off in the company of others. "Do we know how the body got here?"

"He wasn't dragged," Emil replied. "There are no scuff marks to hint at that, I'd say, he was dropped."

"Dropped?" Helborg replied.

Franz put a hand on Helborg's shoulder. "Come now, friend," he said, "we both know that the vampire command beasts capable of such."

"But to carry a body to the walls of the Imperial Palace and drop it without being seen? That's a matter of concern." Helborg looked up at the dark sky, perhaps fearful about how many more beasts were up there.

A crackling in the air drew all their attention back to Gelt. "What are you doing?" Franz asked him.

Gelt raised a hand, a shimmering light in his palm. "Vampires do nothing without reason," he explained. "A twisted reason, a warped logic, perhaps, but it is there. I must... There!" He looked up at them. "The wards beneath the Temple, they're being unravelled."

"What!" How was that possible? Volkmar had blessed those wards himself, as had every Theogonist before him and the vaults had their own cadre of warrior priests to guard them, they would never allow the wards to be tampered with. But one of Mannfred's power... "We must move to stop this. There are artefacts of great power in the vault, if this vampire gets his hands on them-"

"He won't," Franz declared. "I must arm myself, Volkmar, take a detachment of my Reiksguard and move to stop them. Gelt, do what you can to reinforce the wards from here-" Volkmar didn't wait for Franz to finish. He and Emil raced back to the temple at Helborg's direction a dozen Reiksguard knights tore after them, the clangour of metal on stone following them as they pounded across the great square of Altdorf, blanketed by darkness, praying that they weren't too late to stop whatever plots this vampire, whoever it was, had in mind.

* * *

The armoured form of the last of the four warrior priests slid off the end of Erikan's blade and slumped against the walls. "I had my doubts when you insisted I come," Erikan chuckled, licking the blood from his blade. "But I'm glad you did."

Mannfred only grunted as he continued unravelling the next layer of holy wards protecting the vaults, and his prize. Mannfred had detested travelling incognito. Masking the sun with shadow, as he had done in Sylvania was out of the question. On the edge of the Empire was one thing, but if the pall of night arrived at Altdorf, even the inbred lords of the Empire couldn't fail to notice. That reduced him to travelling under the natural night's sky like a common thief. Him, the Count of Sylvania, hiding! The company hadn't made it any better. Markus and Sofie had their uses in Altdorf, and he could tolerate them for that, but Erikan, Morsten and Emmanuella, they had no place here, and their skills would only be useful if they themselves created the situations in which they were needed. Erikan had been Konrad's acolyte, sharing his distaste of dark magic and his love of the bloody feast of battle. Mannfred had long considered erasing him, but he was an easy beast to manipulate, prod him in the right direction and your enemies would suffer. But Mannfred had to keep his hand on the leash or someone else would take the reins. Particularly now, when things were so precarious, he could not allow that. Morsten meanwhile was a lover of schemes and plots. He learned every secret that he could and then ruled over more powerful beings with knowledge alone. That he sold those secrets to Mannfred kept him alive, but Mannfred could not allow him to uncover Vlad, and Morsten was possibly the only vampire who had the right mix of boldness and curiosity to go poking around the von Carstein ancestral pile in search of his secrets. Then there was Emmanuella. A vain woman, even by vampiric standards, who kept a court of sycophants and servants with few warriors to her name, but Mannfred had never believed that that was all there was too it. Of those he'd left behind, the boldest he could trust to bicker and squabble amongst themselves and the meekest would keep their heads down.

After weeks of careful travel across Talabheim, Mannfred and his companions arrived outside the capital city of Altdorf. The last time he had been here he'd been laying siege to the city, before the accursed Grand Theogonist had started working his prayers... He would have his revenge on the current Grand Theogonist for that insult. They were waiting in the darkness by the riverbank. He'd sent the bats to deliver his message to the Imperial palace not long ago, and now it was time to move in, they wouldn't have too long a window. This would have been far easier if Mannfred didn't need the Grand Theogonist to pursue him, but he did, so Mannfred had to make sure that Volkmar, or at least an imperial representative witnessed his actions. "It's time," he had said finally, as Emmanuella was preening herself in a compact mirror she carried around everywhere and Morsten was flicking through his little black book, inked in blood, containing some of his most valuable secrets. Without a word they and their mounts had descended into the waters of the River Reik. Their mounts would attract no attention standing still as bone on the dark riverbed, waiting for their return and it would take more than simple drowning to kill members of the midnight aristocracy.

They had passed through the waters unseen until they entered the Temple. From the commotion and the deployment of Reiksguard knights around the palace he could tell that his message had been received. That, and the cover of night, meant that they had entered the temple virtually undetected, only being accosted when they reached the vaults. He had whipped out his sword and cut the head off the first warrior priest before he had time to look surprised. Erikan leapt at the second, not bothering with his sword and simply ripping the priest's throat out with his fangs. The last two had time to get out their warhammers, but Markus eliminated one of them and Erikan stabbed the other from behind. Emmanuella proved useless, but Sofie had already gotten to work on the holy wards covering the first doors, the first of six that they would have to break in turn to reach the Crown of Sorcery.

Now they were on the fifth, and they'd have to speed up. This ward was fighting back more than the others had. "They've noticed," he mused. He could feel the power flowing into it, this wasn't the power of the accursed faith of Sigmar, but magic. The Wind of Chamon, the Lore of Metal.

"Who have?" Sofie asked, still working to assist him, her black braid of hair slick with sweat from the efforts of breaking the increasingly powerful wards.

"The mortals," Markus said. Markus was able to navigate them to the crown more directly than anyone other vampire in his service.

Mannfred nodded. "Yes... this is great power for a mortal."

"Is it the lore of metal?" Emmanuella asked.

"Yes," Markus replied.

Emmanuella's blood red lips thinned into a grimace. "It seems the supreme patriarch himself is trying to impede us." Emmanuella had something to her name. Mannfred of course knew about Balthasar Gelt, something of a prodigy amongst mortals, but he hadn't expected that she would have.

"Which means there will be more on the way to stop us," Erikan muttered, his face splitting into a grin. "More blood."

"We have a purpose here you barbarian," Mannfred snapped, "and it is _not_ to slake your thirst." He sometimes had to wonder if Erikan had been sired on some Norscan warlord.

"There!" Sofie grunted as the ward broke under their ministrations.

"Onwards," he said, leading them deeper into the vaults. They started passing old cobwebbed tombs of cracked stone. Here the Grand Theogonists were placed in vaults to perform their final duty – watching over the darkest relics. With a holy ringing, a ghostly white light leapt from each of the tombs and rushed at them. He hissed as one of them passed over his chest with a burning flash of holy power. He swatted at it but the lights darted out of reach like a fly before diving back in. Gathering his power he hurled a dark bolt at one of the lights, but instead of sizzling into nothing, the light split into two and surged at him again. He tucked into a roll between them as they flashed over his head. A roar made him look around. Erikan, ever the simpleton, had his sword out and was swinging it at the holy lights with no more effectiveness than trying to cut down a tree with a feather. Sofie was dodging the lights with the elegance of a dancer and Markus was tucking behind pillars as the lights pursued him. Morsten had held back behind the threshold of the tomb chamber, where the sigmarite spirit guardians did not pursue him.

But Emmanuella let out a glass shattering shriek. One of the lights had caught her arm and wrapped itself around her limb like a snake. Desperately she tried shaking it off but the rest of the lights converged on her seizing her other limbs and holding her fast then, when she was fully immobile, the last lights charged at her, forcing themselves into her eyes and throat. Her screams died out as her insides were burned by the holy light, her eyeballs melting and running down her face as he skin blackened and burned while steam billowed from her mouth. When the lights let her go she slumped to the ground, a blackened husk. "Push forward!" He called to Sofie and Markus, and broke into a run, racing for the heart of the vault where the most powerful of the artefacts the sigmarite faith had gathered in their two thousand year war against anything not their own.

"That way!" Markus called, leading them through the maze of old tombs.

The golden warded door to the final vault lay just ahead and Mannfred could feel the power of Chamon reinforcing it with every passing second. The mortals were determined to stop him, but they would fail. "We won't be able to undo the wards before the mortals come," Sofie noted.

"The time for subtlety is over." Mannfred replied gathering his power. "Blast them apart."

* * *

Volkmar could feel the blasts of dark power coming from the vault and couldn't help but smile. The sigmarite guardians had emerged and were trying to stop the dark beings from seizing their prize. "They're resorting to brute force," he called out to the Reiksguard knights. "Be ready for a fight."

"Weapons gentlemen," said the Reiksguard captain and a dozen swords were drawn. Emil drew his silvered pistols and cocked them while Volkmar took up the warhammer he had retrieved from one of the corpses of the warrior priests. It felt uncomfortable in his hand, but he didn't have time to retrieve his own.

As they turned down the cobwebbed corridor they saw the first of the intruders, in flowing, slightly damp yet regal robes, looking into the hallowed tomb chamber from which the white lights from the sigmarite spirit guardians could be seen. "There!" One of the knights called making the figure start and spin to them. There was no mistaking that pallid complexion. A vampire.

"They've come!" He called out before darting inside the chamber just as one of Emil's bullet passed right by where his head had been, slamming into the stone behind sending a lattice of cracks through it.

They raced after the beast, spinning into the room, weapons ready. Apart from one charred corpse on the floor, the intruders still seemed to be up and resisting the spirits. One had been swinging his sword at them but now looked at them with a deep, primal hunger in his gaze, his ancient armour glinting. "Meat!" He cried out triumphantly. Beside him the vampire who had escaped Emil's first bullet had drawn his own sword and stood much more calmly. Behind them three other vampires had their backs to them, blasting away at the vault which, even with Gelt's support, was wavering.

"Attack!" Volkmar roared. "In Sigmar's name!" With a roar they charged, Emil fired a second shot, but the vampire dodged again.

The mad vampire grinned and met the first two Reiksguard head on, his sword spinning faster than Volkmar could track. But the Reiksguard were the finest knights in the empire, and they matched his blows. Meanwhile the other vampire pulled back, pursued by three of the Reiksguard. "Wait!" He called, but too late, the vampire raised his hand and, with a twist of his fingers, sent a stream of dark power at the Reiksguard knights. One dodged to the side, but the other two were caught in it's path and cried out, buckling over in pain. Raising his hammer, Volkmar charged, bringing the prayer infused weapon downwards in a heavy arc. The vampire dodged back, knowing the blow would likely have shattered it's chest apart. It leapt in with it's own attack, but Volkmar blocked it with the haft of his hammer. The Reiksguard who had avoided the dark spell of the vampire came to assist him, bringing his sharp steel blade up in a thrust at the vampire. They continued their assault, driving the vampire back until one of the sigmarite guardian caught the vampire's wrist and held him fast. Seeing his chance Volkmar raised his hammer and brought it down, shattering the vampire's head into a shower of blood and bone which scattered like a broken soup bowl to the floor.

Meanwhile the bestial vampire was showing it's skill with the blade, another two Reiksguard lay dead at it's feet and it drove the tip of it's blade into the face of a third as Volkmar looked on.

Then an almighty sound of shearing metal made them look over at the central vault. The warded doors were blasted off their hinges by the combined power of the three vampires, the treasures within exposed to their foul intent. Two of them disappeared inside while the third turned back and Volkmar felt his heart clench. It was indeed Mannfred von Carstein. He recognised that visage, so often described and pictured in the holy works. "Forward, in the name of Sigmar, strike down the vampire!"

"Come then, old man," Mannfred stepped forward, drawing his sword of dark power almost lazily. "Try and stop me."

Volkmar charged at the vampire. He knew that he was not von Carstein's equal in skill, but he had to stop him, hold him from running until reinforcements under the Emperor could arrive. Mannfred met the blow of the hammer with his blade, his arm visibly buckling under the blow. But he looked amused at best. "You got my message then?" He said as he struck back with a withering barrage of strikes that only Volkmar only blocked through instinct. "Your man... he was causing me such trouble, in mine own lands. The nerve."

"Silence fiend!" Volkmar roared, charging onwards.

Mannfred chuckled as he danced backwards. "I told him to be silent as I stripped the skin from his back. He wasn't." With a gesture Mannfred sent a bolt of dark power surging at him. Volkmar didn't have time to block, and the surge of power hit him with the force of a great club. The vampire was toying with him. If he could break the sacred wards surrounding the vault, he could utterly destroy him with his power if he wanted.

"Count Mannfred!" The two vampires had disappeared into the vault had returned and one of them bore the darkest artefact ever recovered by the faithful – the Crown of Sorcery, the Crown of Nagash.

"Then I must put an end to this, priest. Though I thank you for keeping mine crown in such safety," Mannfred drew his hand back and swept it in a wide arc, a wall of power shooting out, blasting them all off their feet. As Volkmar clambered to his feet, Mannfred and his two fellow bodyguards raced out of the vaults.

"After them!" He roared as he staggered to his feet. "Don't let them escape!" The nearest Reiksguard knights to the door did as he bid, but as Volkmar made to follow them the bestial vampire, blood ringing his mouth and dripping from his sword, leapt in between him and the exit.

"Oh no no no," he said, fixing him with his haunting eyes. "Not you, priest, it's been so long since I fed on holy blood." He charged forward. Growling, Volkmar brought his hammer around and smashed him to the ground, but as he raised the hammer again, the vampire lashed out, seizing his foot and wrenching him off his feet.

He cried out as he hit the ground, his hammer jarring out of his hand. But the vampire was already clambering over him, fangs extended. "Try not to move too much, priest." But as he came closer a silver shaft punched out of his mouth. The vampire looked bewildered and choked for a few seconds before slumping down.

Emil pulled his sword out of the back of the vampire's head. "Come on," he said, holding out his hand and pulling Volkmar to his feet. With the last of the vampires in the chamber dead, the holy guardians were returning to their tombs. Volkmar joined Emil in racing out of the vaults in pursuit of Mannfred von Carstein. One of the knights that had pursued him lay slain against the walls of one corridor, but Volkmar couldn't afford to show him the appropriate respect. They had to get that crown back.

But when they burst out of the temple, there was only a contingent of bewildered looking Reiksguard, Helborg and Franz, in full battle regalia waiting for them, not a vampire in sight.

"Volkmar, were you successful?" Franz asked.

He looked around. The vampire couldn't have gotten far. "Where did he, go, did _none_ of you see von Carstein?"

"He's in the river." The detatchment parted and the captain of the knights that had accompanied him into the vaults approached, his face red and sweaty.

"What are you talking about Leiter?" Helborg demanded. "What do you mean he's in the river?"

"I mean he's in the river," the captain replied, standing up to hi full and proud height. " He leapt in with his companions.

Volkmar cried out in anguish. "What happened Volkmar?" Franz asked urgently. "Did he take anything? What happened down there."

"The crown," he moaned. He wanted to roar to the heavens, he wanted to fall to his knees. "He took the bloody crown. Mannfred von Carstein now has the crown of Nagash in his fell grip."

Not far down the river three undead steeds tore from the river and galloped at full tilt to the east. Mannfred had the crown strapped to his horse. He had been tempted to put it on, just as he had been tempted to end the life of Volkmar the Grim. That man was dangerous and he would likely never get a better opportunity. But apparently he had his purpose still to serve, so Mannfred would have to wait for that pleasure. But he would have both of them in time. For now he had to make it back to Sylvania. He had fulfilled his part of the pledge. Would the liche do the same?

 _Skull Reach Cavern – Mad Dog Pass – The Border Princes_

Finally. He had been searching long enough. Mannfred had probably already made it to the Imperial capital by now, and his journey had been made in stealth. Arkhan had barely had to cross Averland before he was out of the Empire and free to move with speed, but still, it took him long enough to identify where the Skaven he sought were coming from. The feeling of irritation gave Arkhan pause. It had been centuries or more since he last felt a feeling of competition this way, yet here he was, seeing if he could return to Sylvania before Mannfred, even though he knew it was impossible. Both of Mannfred's targets were in the Imperial Capital, his were spread out, and once he was done here, he would have to travel far for the final piece of the ritual. He shook himself. He had more to worry about than a petty competition with the vampire, battle lay ahead of him and it would require his full attention.

Arkhan stood before the cavern with his host at his back. It was a peculiar medley of the living and the dead. Knowing it would take overt force, Arkhan had gathered the appropriate forces to claim the Fellblade by force from the Skaven who possessed it. In his times travelling the world, Arkhan had seeded armies, dormant and ready to be called up, and many thousands of years ago he had planted the Silver Legion here, a host of armoured infantry. But fortune appeared to be on his side. The Skaven had begun an invasion of the area, and the petty lords that called themselves the Border Princes were beset on all sides. Graf Helmut, the local magnate had been desperate when Arkhan showed up at his gates, pledging to rid his lands of Skaven if he provided him soldiers. He had been so desperate that he hadn't batted an eyelid at the thought of assisting an army of the undead in saving his lands. A regiment of lancers and archers in Helmut's livery had joined him. They were far outnumbered by the dead, but they had initiative, which would prove useful in the battle to come. Finally, the necromancers he had gathered to him ripped corpses from the ground in their hundreds and thousands, a host of zombies to be the first into battle and blunt the Skaven armies.

"You're certain they are coming from here?" Asked captain Menchen, the commander of Graf Helmut's detachment.

" _I am,"_ Arkhan replied. _"Have no fear, soon your lands will be rid of these marauding ratmen."_ For now at least, Arkhan thought.

"And you?" Menchen asked warily. "What will you do?"

" _The Skaven have taken something of mine, I will have it back, and then I will depart. Have no fear, your petty fiefdom means nothing to me."_

The captain was suspicious, as he ought to be, but Arkhan was speaking truth. "So..." he asked tentatively. "When do we attack?"

" _Are your men, ready?"_

Almost indignantly, Menchen stood up to his full height. "We are."

" _Then we attack now."_ He signalled to Leopold, the head of his coven of necromancers. He was the most capable of the lot, and they all sought to learn from his prowess. He would humour them for now, but they lacked the skills to be useful in the long term. But they could sustain his army for now.

With a gleeful cackle, Leopold rammed his wooden staff into the ground and the shuffling and shambling horde of zombies poured into the caverns. He would follow them up with the Silver Legion and then the living behind them, but for now his zombies would map out the caverns for him and allow him to locate the heart of the Skaven clan, and the Fellblade.

The undead met scant and pitiful resistance at first, individual swarms of clanrats, led by chieftains banished from the heart of the clan. They lacked the tactical skill or co-ordination to put up any proper resistance, or to send word back to the clan leaders that they were under attack. The first that Warlord Feskit realised his clan was under attack was when the shrieks of dying Skaven echoed down the caves. As the elderly ratman ordered his chieftains to battle and the clan began to surge up the tunnels the upper caverns had been lost and the undead met them on the way up and so began a war of attrition in the tunnels between the tireless army of the dead and the numberless hordes of Skaven.

Warlord Feskit spoke to his gathered chieftains, promising great rewards to whoever brought him the head of this invading army. Eager for rewards, most of his chieftains rushed out to gather their clanrats, stormvermin and other battalions. But Feskit's second in command, Snikrat remained behind at Feskit's signal. As Feskit saw it, this assault was perfectly timed. Ever since the Council of Thirteen had told him to keep his clan safe and preserved, along with the Fellblade there had been rumours of discontent amongst the chieftains, who wanted plunder, slaves and more. He had satiated them so far by letting them run loose throughout the nearby territory of the Border Princes, but he had known it wouldn't sustain them for long. Now he could send those grumbling chieftains against the enemy, where they would die or lose so many of their men as to be weakened, and he could hold his best forces back, deal with what was left of the army of the dead and any of the rebellious chieftains who remained. "Snikrat, go and ready our best, have them ready to destroy whatever comes back from those tunnels."

Snikrat sniggered with glee and left to do as Feskit ordered. Unlike those other fools who sought open rebellion, he knew he wasn't ready to betray Feskit... yet.

At the front, the Skaven horde smashed into the undead horde in a writhing mass of fangs, claws and blades and came up short. Though they outnumbered the undead many times over, the narrow tunnels meant the Skaven could only attack six at a time, with those behind crushing them against the dead who pushed onwards, unconcerned with wounds from the clanrats. Under the will of Arkhan's necromancers, the zombies pressed onwards and tore into the Skaven, cornered like the rats they were, and slaughtered them, the stone walls and floor becoming slick with blood and gut as they drove the rats back, inch by bloody inch.

Chief Resskin was alarmed at the progress of the undead. He had thought this would be an easy affair, but his underlings were being slaughtered. If he wanted to retain his position, he had to defeat these undead. "Bring up the warpfire!" He called. Skaven bearing the deadly warpfire weapons hurried up, chittering excitedly as they deployed their weapons over the heads of their fellow rats. "Fire!" Resskin ordered with triumph. That triumph was short lived as the warpfire blanketed the caverns, setting alight zombie and Skaven alike. But unlike his warriors, who shrieked and died, the zombies felt no pain and rushed onwards against the weakened Skaven, blazing into them like torches setting them alight as well. Resskin didn't wait to see what became of his warriors, he turned tail and bolted back down the tunnel.

Captain Menchen and his men accompanied the undead leader down the tunnel after the host of zombies and skeleton warriors. He gaped at the carnage, thousands of corpses of both sides lay strewn across the ground, his stout boots squelching in the blood that pooled like thick glutinous mud. _"The army progresses."_ Arkhan said. _"We'll have broken their outer defences before long."_

"Outer defences?!" He asked alarmed. If these were only the outer defences what could possibly be coming up?

Arkhan nodded. _"Do not underestimate their numbers, but fear not. We'll destroy them eventually."_

Menchen swallowed and nodded, leading his detachment on after the undead. He'd had reservations at first, but now wondered if there was any mortal force capable of matching this host. Was death their only chance of beating the Ratmen?

Meanwhile Feskit was becoming alarmed at the results of the battle. He'd expected his underlings to last longer than this, but more and more of his warriors were fleeing the tunnels back to them every minute.

The tunnels opened into a wide open plain with a great chasm dividing it from the main fortress and a sturdy wooden bridge separating them. It seems he might need to buy himself a little more time. "Burn the bridge!" He ordered and his own wildfire throwers gleefully set about their task, turning their weapons upon the wooden structure and setting it ablaze. The enemy forces seemed to be so driven, so terrifying that many of the fleeing warriors still tried to rush back across it, but those that tried only fell into the abyss when the flames ate away at the support and it splintered and crumbled away, the burning green shards of wood lighting up the chasm walls until they fell out of sight.

The retreating warriors skittered to a halt on the edge of the chasm. A few desperate souls tried leaping it, but they fell into the chasm. The rest span around, desperate for some escape, but there was none to be had as the enemy streamed after them, a great wall of dead flesh that slammed into them like a sledgehammer, charging onwards. By this point the zombies weren't even trying to fight, they just formed a large wall of meat and charged, dragging the warriors with them over the edge of the chasm until not a single skaven warrior remained when the rest of the zombies fell still. Despite the sacrifice of tens of thousands of Skaven, the enemy had not been stopped and were now at Feskit's doorstep. But as long as they remained on the other side of the chasm, they couldn't touch him.

Arkhan approached the chasm through the blood and bones of the slaughtered and slain, his necromancers and mortal allies at his side. He could almost smell his prize, just across that chasm. But of course he wasn't smelling the Fellblade itself, but the spirit within, raging against it's bonds. Nagash was always calling his voice ever present like a nail hammered through his ear every fresh second, normally Arkhan could dull the call to maintain his focus, but in the vicinity of a piece of Nagash's wounded soul, it was more prevalent than ever. _"Captain, ready your men. It's time you got involved in saving your homeland."_

Menchen just looked down at the chasm, perplexed. "How?" He asked lamely.

" _The zombies have served their purpose, the time is now for the Silver Legion and your own men."_ Arkhan said.

Now he didn't need mindless hordes, he needed more heavily armed soldiers. He raised his had and started to channel his power. _"Be ready, captain. As soon as the Silver Legion have crossed, you and your men follow."_ With a wordless command he sent the zombies charging at the chasm. They hurled themselves at the gap with flailing limbs and were held in the air by Arkhan's power as they started to form a bridge, getting closer and closer to the other side.

"Archers forward, target their gunner crews," ordered Menchen smartly and his archers stepped up to the chasm and raised their bows. Arrows fell thick and fast amongst the infernal fire throwing Skaven, preventing them from burning the new bridge.

 _Now,_ Arkhan gave a wordless command and the Silver Legion advanced in tight blocks of infantry, shields raised and swords ready to shed Skaven blood. The first formation reached the end just as the zombies finished making themselves into a bridge.

"Get them, get them!" Feskit ordered and his more elite regiments charged forward, stormvermin and rat ogres, free of the confines of the tunnels, tore into the skeleton warriors, smashing and carving them apart as more and more of the enemy crossed their makeshift bridge. "Snikrat, hold them, I need the weapon." He turned and disappeared into the heart of the fortress as his warriors continued to attack the enemy. He knew power when he saw it, whoever commanded them had more power than the Grey Seers, he would need the great green blade in order to stop them.

Snikrat was unsure of how to proceed, the initial success enjoyed by the warriors was stymied, rat ogres were overwhelmed by dead bodies and cut to pieces, the Skullsplinters, his sharpshooters could break a few bones, but the enemy leaders were hidden in the mass and impossible to get in their sights. He ordered fresh waves of warriors at the skeletons and broke apart one block of skeletons, setting on them with a frenzy, but they shuddered to a halt against the shields of the next one. But he had more warriors by far than the enemy, he could do this, and if he was victorious here then he could be seen as the rightful successor to Feskit.

But then the ringing of a trumpet rent the air and he looked at the flesh bridge. A small column of horsemen were charging across the dead bodies, armoured with lowered lances, and very much alive. He cursed and tucked to the side as they slammed through his warriors, lances splintering and swords flashing as they hacked their way through his warriors, one of them planted a lance through a rat ogre's head as he passed as a sharpshooter sent another flying from the back of his horse, and in their wake more skeletons charged.

His men were broken, scattered, fighting as individuals and they couldn't hope to win as his warriors started to get butchered in their thousands. He saw his men break and skulk away into the heart of the fortress, to try and hide and wait out the slaughter. Knowing when victory was out of reach, he turned, but before he could make it a few steps, a human with a plume in his helm, some kind of commander, brought his sword down, splitting Snikrat's skull in two without a second's thought.

It was all over, Arkhan knew as he crossed the bridge with his acolytes, the Silver Legion and humans were putting the Skaven to rout. He would send in his warriors to purge the last of them, but the threat had been broken, now he just had to find his prize.

Captain Menchen rode over, his sword and armour smeared with blood, he was struggling to control his horse that was being driven mad by the stench of it. "So many," he wondered, looking around at the sheer scale of dead Skaven. "I never thought there could be this many of them."

" _There are,"_ he replied. In fact there were more of them, more than could be counted. But Nagash would deal with them all in time. _"My minions will deal with the last of them, even with so many dead they could muster a large army, but we won't let them. But now I must recover what was stolen from me."_ It seemed as though it wouldn't take long, for he could feel the shard of Nagash's soul drawing closer and closer. _"Stand ready Captain, and do not interfere,"_ he said, stepping forwards. The Silver Legion stepped back into a semi circle as Menchen backed away and Arkhan's prize emerged from deeper within the fortress on the back of an armoured Skaven chieftain.

It danced around in a frantic madness, hissing with fury. "My clan! What have you done to my clan?!"

" _What I will do to you, unless you give me that sword on your back,"_ Arkhan replied calmly.

"No," the Skaven shrieked, snatching the blade from his back and drawing it. Arkhan couldn't help but recoil at the sight, the blade of pure warpstone: a weapon powerful enough to slay more than Nagash's body; but wound his spirit in such a way that, were he to return, he would always be weaker, every single time; a weapon so dangerous that with every strike it drained the soul and strength of the wielder as well. It was the greatest obstacle to his resurrection. "You've taken my clan, you won't take my sword!" He charged at Arkhan as fast as an arrow, but Arkhan was ready for him. With a twitch of his fingers one of the skeletal warriors of the Silver Legion hurled itself between him and the oncoming chieftain. The Fellblade parted bone and armour like warm butter, but it gave Arkhan the chance to back away in a retreat.

And so began a game of cat and mouse, with Warlord Feskit rushing after Arkhan, swinging the Fellblade madly, as Arkhan retreated, throwing skeletons at the Chieftain to defend himself, butnot striking a blow, he wouldn't need to.

Sure enough, Feskit started to tire unnaturally quickly, his swings, still dangerous became slow and sluggish until he was dragging his feet forwards towards Arkhan, a murderous intent still burning in his beady rat eyes, but his strength was fading, his body was withering before Arkhan's eyes and his armour becoming and encumbrance more than anything. Arkhan whipped out his sword and struck, slicing the Skaven warlord's wrist off, the Fellblade clattering to the ground, and even that was enough to crack the stone it landed on. Feskit hissed in pain, too weak to cry out any more than that.

" _Foolish monster. Did you really believe a creature as pitiful as you could wield a weapon as mighty as this?"_ Feskit rasped at the air, trying to speak, but wielding the Fellblade had drained him. Arkhan sent a blast of magic into his skull, killing him instantly. Without a seconds glance, he turned to his necromancer minions. _"Send forces into the caves, scour every Skaven here."_

Hours later they all emerged. Arkhan had suffered substantial losses, the zombies didn't matter, he could rip more corpses from the dirt if he had to, but his Silver Legion had lost more than a third of their strength against the Skaven, and Captain Menchen's contingent was down by more than one in four. But it was worth it, he had the Fellblade.

"Where do we go now," asked Leopold, "back to Sylvania?"

" _You will go back to Sylvania,"_ Arkhan corrected him. _"But I am not finished, there is one last target to retrieve, and I will do so alone. You would only get in the way."_

Leopold bowed his simpering head. "Shall we care for the sword for you?"

So you can stab me in the back? Not likely. Most importantly, Arkhan knew, was to keep it out of the hands of Mannfred. The vampire was a beast, you could poke and prod him into moving as you wanted it, but you didn't give it too much power. _"No, I will watch the Fellblade. Return and tell Mannfred that I will be along shortly. With the last sacrifice."_


	5. 1-5

_Altdorf – Reikland_

"I would still advise caution Volkmar," Franz told him once again.

"And I will remind you, Franz, that Mannfred von Carstein as gotten his hands on a very powerful artefact, it must be recovered, quickly."

He had put out the call to Crusade the day after Mannfred had stolen Nagash's crown from his vault and already, forces were responding to his call. A large force of Flagellants calling themselves the Tattersouls were camped outside the city, wailing their nihilistic prayers to the heavens, and two regiments of soldiers: Sigmar's Sons, a force of swordsmen who had earned their name in the north, battling raiders from Norsca; and a contingent of Knights of the Blazing Sun, led by a fiery Tilean captain called Lupio Blaze had joined him already, with more looking to do so along the path to Sylvania. Speed was of the essence, and so any not in reach of Altdorf within a few days were to gather at Heldenhame Keep on the Sylvanian border. Franz had disagreed with this action, wanting to mobilise the total strength of the Empire to crush Mannfred's upstart realm once and for all. But Volkmar couldn't wait, not only was it dangerous, but he had lost face when it had been stolen. It had been placed under the official protection of the Cult of Sigmar, and Volkmar knew he was already considered old and failing by many. If he couldn't recover it the wolves would strike, and with every passing day it got further and further away. "I have strength and faith behind me, Franz," he assured the Emperor who was not convinced. "Do not fear, I will recover the crown, and hold Mannfred's gaze while you gather the Imperial armies."

"That vampire has many eyes," Gelt spoke up, "we won't be able to disguise the gathering of the Imperial armies." The Supreme Patriarch had been the most outspoken against his expedition. He claimed to be working on a means to keep Mannfred trapped in Sylvania and that it would be best if they all held back, waited patiently. Volkmar rarely trusted Gelt, but on matters of faith or the war against the dead, he refused to listen. "And if he is expecting anything, it is that you will go to him to retrieve that crown, he will see you coming before you leave this city."

"Let him see his doom then," Volkmar replied, "but I will not be stopped." In truth he knew the difficulty of his task, probably better than Gelt or Franz. But the pride of the Cult of Sigmar and his own position were at threat, as was the whole world if Mannfred were to don that crown.

Finally Franz bowed to the inevitable. "Very well then, if you won't be discouraged, then our prayers are with you."

"Thank you, my Emperor," Volkmar replied.

"Indeed," said Franz, irritated, but not willing to stand against Franz and Volkmar on this. "If we cannot dissuade you, then we shall do our best to aid you." He turned and beckoned over two wizards, one of them clad in the bright orange robes of the Bright College, the other in the pure white of the Light College. "This is Lazmur Kintle and Jovi Sunscryre. They will aid you in your Crusade, and I shall follow on as soon as I have finished my preparations."Volkmar looked at the wizards. He didn't tend to trust them by nature, but judging by their badges, their power was considerable, Gelt was not leasing him novices it seemed. "Jovi will be bringing a Luminark of Hysh with him. I have no doubt that weapon will serve you ably."

"A Luminark?" Volkmar asked, alarmed, he would never have expected Gelt to part with one of his more powerful weapons.

The white wizard bowed. "Indeed, my acolytes are bringing it out of the city now. It will be our honour to assist you against the darkness."

Volkmar nodded his thanks to the wizards, but said it directly to Gelt. "Thank you, Patriarch."

"Don't squander them," Gelt replied. "Serve well against the servants of darkness," he said to his wizards, before he turned on his heel and swept away.

Franz turned back to him. "Will you be able to find von Carstein?" He asked. "Even with a Crusade behind you, Sylvania is not small. It was once a full province of the Empire."

"I know," Volkmar replied. "But I will find him. Mannfred will likely not be able to resist the challenge of my army, and even if he does, I sent Emil ahead to gather any leads he can."

Franz nodded. "Then go with faith, my friend, retrieve that crown."

"Only death will stop me."

 _Avelorn – Ulthuan_

"To the Dwarfs," Alarielle spat as she looked over the glistening forests of her realm of Avelorn. "What is Finubar thinking?"

"He is thinking of the Asur," her lover assured her from the bed behind her. "The king always has."

"I could force her to stay here," Alarielle reminded her consort. "Aliathra is _my_ heir, not his. Once she's here, then it will be impossible for him to do so."

Tyrion approached her, wrapping his arms around her softly. "You could, but he's already warned you of his response, I was there remember. The Everqueen can't risk what he threatened."

"But _he_ can threaten it? He is the Phoenix King."

She knew she shouldn't be turning to Tyrion about this. Prince Tyrion wasn't one for wisdom, he was at home with a sword in his hand, where he could vent his righteous fury upon his enemies, but in this instance he was right. She well remembered the look of stone on Finubar's face when he'd met with her shortly after his return from his latest voyage.

 _Three weeks previously_

"Why should I agree to this?!" She demanded of Finubar, her fists slamming onto the wooden table. She'd supported Finubar ever since he had been elected Phoenix King, she'd even interrupted a major council meeting to remind the princes of their loyalties when they grew discontent with his constant voyages in his early reign. And now he wanted to take her daughter away and send her to live underground, far from home.

"Because it is the best thing for us all." Finubar replied simply, his face unmoving as he sat across the table from her, fingers pressed gently together. "For you, for me, for her... for all the Asur."

"No it isn't," she replied. "Aliathra is to become the Everqueen, she needs to know of Ulthuan, not some mountain hall."

Finubar sighed. "She does know, Alarielle," he said, "she knows Ulthuan, and she won't forget it. But Ulthuan cannot be our turtle shell any longer. I know it, your consort's twin Prince Teclis knows it, and I believe that you know it as well."

She almost growled at Finubar for that. He had forgotten the elder days it seemed, when the Asur ruled the world, when nothing was beyond their reach. They had their struggles but they weren't a spent force, not yet. She would see them rise again, as would any of the Princes of Ulthuan. But Finubar was firm in his belief that the days when the Asur oversaw the destiny of the world were gone. "She is _my_ daughter. She will be the Everqueen of Avelorn one day."

"Only if she goes to Karaz-a-Karak in the Asur's name."

"And what does that mean?"

"You know full well what it means," Finubar replied. Standing up to her height and looking her in the eyes. "How many people know the truth? Me, you, Prince Tyrion, his brother, Caradryan of the Phoenix Guard, that's all. Caradryan's vow of silence stays his tongue, expedience stays mine and Teclis', what stays your tongue and Tyrion's is pride. Keep Aliathra here and I will let the whole Continent know the truth of Aliathra."

She recoiled like Finubar had lashed her with a tongue of Dragonflame. "You wouldn't!"

"Yes, Alarielle, I would," he replied calmly. "And then what would happen? Well the Princes would divide in a heartbeat. I can count on Caledor, Cothique and my own Eataine to stand with me from the start. The Phoenix guard would stand by me and I have confidence in my ability to rally others. You would have Avelorn, Saphery perhaps and possibly Ellyrion. Tiranoc and Chrace would no doubt seek to mediate peace, they know the true threat facing Ulthuan, but I doubt they would succeed. Perhaps it would go as far as war between us, the first civil war of the Asur since the Sundering. Perhaps not, but the strife would invite the Witch King back to invade once more. Without united leadership, would we be able to hold back his armies I wonder. And what of Aliathra herself? Would she support you, or me? We both know the answer to that. I have kept the truth from Aliathra's ears to preserve the tapestry of the Asur, because if the truth was to be revealed everything that we are would start to unravel. So the real question is, are you, the Everqueen of Ulthuan, willing to risk the destruction of what it means to be an elf to preserve your pride?"

She sank back into her chair. Finubar's talents for diplomacy had been in his favour for naming him the Phoenix King. He knew when to threaten, when to flatter, when to bargain and where to draw the line – and he knew how to put people into making a choice between a situation of his making, or one that was untenable, as he had just done to her. "No," she whispered. "I'm not."

He nodded at her before turning and sweeping away. In the first years of their marriage he would have smiled, but Kingship had hardened Finubar. Only Aliathra and his children could make him smile these days.

 _Present time_

"Finubar means well," Tyrion said, wrapping his arms around her softly, pressing a kiss to her neck. "He would never put Ali in intentional harm. Besides," he added, sliding her clothes off her shoulder, "if she is hurt, I will rip apart the world to bring her back, you know that."

"I do," she shuddered as Tyrion trailed kisses along her shoulder, taking more of her clothes with them. "You should tell Ali before she goes."

"I will," he replied.

As she was about to fully commit to Tyrion's advances, a sudden flash of pain sparked across her features. She gasped in pain and recoiled from her lover. "What happened?" Tyrion asked.

Alarielle was tied to the island, it was the source of her power and she could feel the world through it. More importantly, she could feel when danger came upon it, and something was coming from the west, something dark and foul, with an evil intent, focussed on Lothern. "I... I feel... something's coming."

 _Lothern – a few hours later_

Aliathra watched her half-brother's training with interest. She was Finubar's most important child, but she was destined to become the Everqueen of Avelorn, Finubar needed other children to inherit Eataine and Lothern. No elf ever longed for consorts, the Phoenix King had the pick of the flock, and Yulerian had been his oldest child with another and so he would be prince here were Finubar to die.

Where her father had an affinity for the sea, Yulerian loved the air. He was too young to tame a dragon as yet, but he had trained in flying a griffon under the stewardship of Eltharion the Grim, Warden of Tor Evresse. Compared to Lothern, Tor Evresse was a pitiful city, a sign of the situation of the Elves, depopulated and half empty. Half the manors in the city were empty, and the amphitheatres stood silent. The walls were tall and strong, but there were never enough men to man them properly. Eltharion was a grim man, but he had taught Yulerian well, and he flew deftly above the spires and waves, the talons of his griffon scraping the water before spinning up into the air.

"He's getting better," Aliathra said as the griffon turned in the air and folded it's wings, diving towards them, spreading it's wings open at the last minute before landing on the stones with a skittering grace.

Yulerian slipped off the back of the Griffon and smiled at her. "Ali," he smiled at her, his dark bangs framing his thin, sharp face and his eyes of piercing green looking into her own. He had a lot more of his mother in him than his father, but it was possible to see Finubar in those eyes. "I didn't know you were here."

"Well here I am," she replied with a smile. "You're getting better."

"It was thirty years since you last saw me," Yulerian reminded her. "I'd hope to improve a little over such time."

She laughed. "True enough." She rubbed at her temple, a stinging pain budding behind her eyes. "One day you'll be flying with the best of them."

He smiled wryly. "I hope so."

Aliathra rubbed at her temples harshly. "Are you okay?" He asked her.

She shook her head. This was no simple headache, this was something else. "I feel... something... something dark." She looked around, whatever it was, it was close. There! At the top of a nearby stone arch, a small swirling cloud of dark energy, rippling and crackling against the blue sky.

Lord Adana stepped up with the Phoenix guard, his hand on his sword hilt. "My lady," he warned.

But he didn't have time to say any more as the cloud was sent whirling at them. Aliathra gathered her power and pushed it out an a wide shield. She struggled to maintain the shield against the hammering of dark power, but eventually the storm broke and she could lower the shield. The flowerbeds behind her, formerly bright and colourful were now wilted, dead and rotted, like the rains hadn't fed them in weeks. The very air itself hung with a pall of foulness.

"What... what was that?" Yulerian asked, suddenly fearful.

" _A most impressive barrier,"_ responded a voice that wasn't carried by vibrations in the air, but dug into their brains like worms. _"Consider me impressed, Everchild."_ A figure floated down from atop the archway. Dead, a skull with no skin on it, wearing a large headdress unlike anything Aliathra had seen before, with flowing dark robed, clutching a staff in one hand that seeped power into the air. It had two swords, one at its waist and another on its back.

In a flash Adana stood between her and the figure, sword out and pointed at the threat, unwavering and firm. "Not another step, creature."

"Yule, run, get help, warn father!" She insisted. Her brother didn't need telling twice, leaping onto the back of his griffon and kicking off into the air.

The figure, whatever it was, didn't spare him a second glance, though who could tell where it was looking with its empty sockets. _"Your father cannot save you, Everchild. You will come with me."_

"She will not," Adana said, the Phoenix guard stepping up beside him.

"Who are you?" She asked. Her father had always taught her that if she didn't know what to do, keep asking questions, it almost always buys you more time.

" _My name is Arkhan, and I have need of you to restore my master."_

That meant nothing to her. "I will go nowhere with you, creature."

" _Force then,"_ it said and she could feel it start to gather power. But before it could finish Adana was upon it, sword flashing in the gathering shadows as he hacked and slashed at the creature. Whatever it's power, it couldn't stand up to Adana's supreme skills and was driven back across the stone circle. It had drawn the sword on its waist but couldn't keep up, Adana's blade slicing through the robes and into... whatever was underneath. But this thing was dead, could Adana kill it?

The Phoenix guard joined Adana in pressing his attack, their halberds thrusting and slashing at the undead thing, driving it backwards and to it's knees, it's futile defence demolished, before driving their weapons into it's chest.

" _Very... impressive,"_ came the voice, groaning as though in great pain, but very much alive. _"To be expected from Elves."_ A sudden force of dark power rippled and blasted from the undead figure, slamming Adana and the two Phoenix guard back across the courtyard, Adana slamming into the stone wall behind her before rolling still.

"Adana!" She dropped to her knees. His skin had been weathered like tanned leather, his eyes staring blankly back at her, dead. "You monster!" She yelled at the figure, who had drawn Adana's sword from his body and gotten to his feet, leaning heavily on his staff.

" _Yes,"_ he said. _"I am. Though be thankful. Because I need your sacrifice you will never know the greater monster that is to come."_

"Silence!" She yelled, gathering her power into her fists and blasting it at Arkhan, who nullified it with his own powers. They launched their powers at each other. Aliathra could tell that she was weaker than this creature, but he was holding back, whatever he needed her for, he needed her alive for now. She had no such reason to hold back. "Die, die forever!" She cried, blasting him with shards of pure light.

" _I will not be killed by power like this,"_ he replied, almost musing as he lashed out at her with a whip of dark power which she barely deflected.

The courtyard around them was suffering in the battle, the raw power in the air was cracking the stones, the powers of death at Arkhan's hands were withering plants and trees while Aliathra's power of life and light made them bud anew.

Arkhan was beginning to seethe. He had expected that the Everchild would be powerful, but not this powerful. He had to finish this quickly. King Finubar he could deal with, but if the twin heroes were to arrive, or the Everqueen, he would fail, and he could not fail. Regathering his power he launched a stream of purple darkness at her, moulding it around the shield that she put up, wearing down on her mind. Just as he was starting to make progress a shriek made him look up as a mass of claws and feathers descended on him.

Aliathra gasped in relief when the stream of power ended, falling to one knee and clutching her chest. She looked and saw her brother's griffon, tearing at the ground around Arkhan.

"Ali!"

"Father!"

Finubar pulled Aliathra to her feet. "I came as soon as your brother told me," he said. Unlike his usual robes, Finubar was clad in his gold plated armour, trimmed with red, clutching a finely wrought elven blade in his hand. "More are coming, I sent word to your mother, though she likely knew already."

He turned at the shrieks of the griffon which was blasted away, feathers shrivelling and turning grey as it let out a few last, pitiful cries. "He says his name is Arkhan," Aliathra told him.

Finubar studied his foe. "You're a liche," he said as Arkhan turned to him.

" _I am,"_ Arkhan replied.

Finubar calmed his breath, this creature was stronger than him, he had to delay as long as possible, his White Lion bodyguards were on the way, and Tyrion and Teclis would be coming as fast as they could. "From your robes... I'd say you from Nehekhara."

" _I am,"_ Arkhan confirmed.

"A liche... from Nehekhara... called Arkkhan... ah," he said, suddenly remembering the link. "Then you are Arkhan the Black, foremost servant of the Great Necromancer Nagash."

" _Impressive,"_ Arkhan complemented him.

"Tell me, does Settra know you're here?"

" _Settra knows little. If he knew more he would never have allowed his pride to spare me before. As it stands it is too late for him to do anything anymore,"_ Arkhan replied. _"Give me the Everchild, now, and Ulthuan can keep it's king."_

"You can't have Aliathra. You have underestimated Ulthuan, my guards are on the way, Princes Tyrion and Teclis behind them, and the Everqueen follows as well."

" _They will be too late."_

Finubar raised his blade. Arkhan had been able to kill one of the strongest of the Swordmasters, and two of the phoenix guard and a great phoenix. He'd had a warrior's training, but he was never a great soldier. But the liche threatened Aliathra, and he would not allow that to go unpunished. "Ali. I'm going to need your help. Support me. We have to hold him until the others arrive."

Ali clambered back to her feet and gathered her power once more. "Yes father," she said.

Finubar charged at Arkhan. He may not have been a great warrior, but he had centuries of training and experience and he could more than surpass Arkhan's skills with the sword. They battled Arkhan back, Aliathra shielding her father from the worst of Arkhan's dark magic while Finubar tried to slip his blade through Arkhan's defences to harm the undead body beneath. Where possible, Aliathra sent bolts of bright power into Arkhan to aid her father, which seemed to worry him more than Finubar's blade ever could.

Sensing Arkhan gathering his power, Aliathra quickly shielded her father, but he was still blasted back across the stone courtyard, barely able to keep his feet as he came to rest next to her, panting heavily. "You're... good," he complemented Arkhan.

" _As is your daughter, you must be proud of her. But I will waste no more time."_ He dropped his sword with a clatter and reached to his back.

Arkhan had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but he needed her, now, he could sense the approach of allies that would guarantee his destruction. He drew the Fellblade.

Aliathra recoiled at raw power from the new weapon, it was unlike anything she had felt before, not even the Widowmaker, the cursed Sword of Kaine could match the cruelty and malice and raw power from that weapon. "Careful, father," she gasped, clutching at her head. "That weapon is deadly."

Finubar nodded, the glowing green weapon almost stared at him, like a predator eyeing its prey. But still, he wouldn't just stand aside.

This time it was Arkhan who went on the offensive, charging at Finubar, not casting any spells, he had to be done with this before the Fellblade sapped him of too much strength. He slashed in a wide arc aimed to cut Finubar in two. The Phoenix king stepped back and raised his own blade to block, but before the Fellblade, even his fine elven blade shattered into broken shards. Arkhan drew the sword back and thrust at Finubar's chest. Aliathra poured as much magic as she could summon into forming a shield, but it parted like sheaves of wheat and the Fellblade pierced her father's stomach.

"NO!" She roared as Arkhan drew the sword out and Finubar slumped to the ground. Gathering her power in her hands she sent all of it in a concentrated blast at Arkhan who, distracted, couldn't protect himself fully was blasted back, slamming into the wall with enough force to send a great spiderweb of cracks shooting through the pristine stone.

"Father!" She rushed over to her father and fell to her knees. "Father!"

Finubar spluttered in pain, trying to cover the hole in his stomach. "Ali," he whispered looking up into her eyes, desperately. "I... I'm sorry."

"Don't talk father, you're going to be okay."

"Ali listen to me!" He hissed, reaching up and clutching her dress tightly. "Do you have your amulet?"

"My what?" She asked blankly. "Yes, the one you gave me."

He nodded quickly, casting a quick glance at Arkhan who was struggling to his feet, stowing the Fellblade on his back again. "Ali, he's going to take you. I'm sorry. But there's still hope. Call out. Use that amulet, keep it safe." He reached up and tugged on the chain of his own. "Someone... will come for you... I swear."

Of course, Aliathra realised. Her amulet was linked to her father's. "I... understand, father."

"Be strong," he said.

"Father," she choked, but a sudden blast of power seeped into her, making her fall to the ground, gasping in pain, unable to draw on her own magic.

" _Enough of this!"_ Arkhan declared, taking her arm and hauling her onto his back. _"You fought well, Finubar, but you lost."_ With Aliathra on his back he launched himself into the air, a gathering of dark power guiding him on.

Finubar could only watch as Aliathra was taken away. He didn't even notice as armoured feet pounded into the courtyard.

"My King!" Korhil, captain of the White Lions cried as he saw Finubar laying on the ground, prone, but moaning. He was still alive. He dropped to his knees beside his king. Damn Finubar, he had warned him not to rush off like that. Now he was wounded, possibly mortally. Now was not the time. He had a duty to perform, while Finubar lived he had to do all in his power to see that he stayed that way. "Bring him to the Everqueen, now!"

"Ali..." Finubar moaned as he was gathered up by three of Korhil's White Lions.

"Don't speak, my king," Korhil said as he ran alongside them. "You'll survive this, I swear."

"Aliathra," he whispered before darkness took him. "He's taken the Everchild."


	6. 1-6

_Heldenhame Keep – On the Sylvanian Border_

Heldenhame Keep was a sight to behold. One of the most impressive fortresses in the Empire, a great metropolis between two walls, the outer wall and the inner wall, behind which a the main fortress stood. The people of the city were not like those of Altdorf, Talabheim or most other Imperial cities, Heldenhame was bred and nursed on war, everyone there knowing the dangers that lay beyond the Sylvanian border in the pall of darkness. Every citizen was drilled in the art of war, on the battlefield they wouldn't match up to the disciplined soldiers of the Empire, but they could and did assist whenever the fortress came under threat. Final proof of the strength of the fortress was in its castellan. It was not held by a governor, or an Elector, not a lord or even a General of the Empire – the commander of Heldenhame was Hans Leitdorf, the grand master of the knightly Order of Sigmar's Blood. Hans was a well built soldier, a grizzled veteran who had maintained a watch over the Sylvanian border for a decade, defeated no less than three Vampiric excursions across it. He had further proven his worth when Volkmar had arrived, commiting a full two thirds of his men to the crusade, pledging to lead them personally. This was particularly welcome because the army that was gathered was not as large as he had hoped for. Having rushed across the width of the Empire, Volkmar had been confronted by the army that had answered his call. Apart from the men who had accompanied him, others had converged on Heldenhame. The Elector of Averland had provided a regiment of Handgunners and another of spearmen, led by a young and ambitious captain. Stirland's Elector had been even more flimsy with his offerings, providing a force of Free Company militiamen, neither well trained nor armed, though a force of Imperial Knights made Stirland's offering more worthwhile. Ostermark, despite being on the northern border, had still answered his call, and sent a force of pistoliers and outriders to join his army. Despite being in the west of the Empire, Nuln had answered his call, from their foundries came a trio of hellstorm rocket batteries dubbed 'the Sunmakers' and four cannons named 'the hammers of witches', apt names, considering where they would be going. These had all been joined by individual regiments of Flagellants and State Troops that had answered his call to arms. This hodgepodge of regiments was all he could work with, he had no time to gather more. Coming together with a medley of accents, training, motivations and desires, this coalition was the best hope the world had of stopping von Carstein's plot before it was too late.

Thankfully they would not be marching blind. Emil had gone on ahead before he had even left Altdorf, and returned when the army had gathered, scouting out Sylvania. "We should proceed in through the south," Emil explained drawing his finger along the map laid out before him and his commanders. "One of von Carstein's lieutenants has reoccupied Fort Oberstyre, with a horde of banshees and horrors at his command, we have the strength to break it, but we may well be broken in turn. But Schwartzhafen is lightly defended. The area was regularly hunted by my fellows, and many of the crypts and ghoul dens have been burned out. If we march quickly we can seize the town, from there it's a short journey to Naubonum, and from there we can cross the haunted hills to Drakehoff."

"Haunted?" Asked the fiery Lupio Blaze.

Emil nodded, his lips pressed together. A soft snort came from the pig at Emil's feet, a large hog that rose to his knee, clad in roughly forged plate that was strapped to its fatty hide. Though the smell was not desirable, pigs were better companions than hounds out in the dark places, you could feed them on ghoulflesh and they didn't run from the stench and foulness of the living dead, as hounds did, and they were cleverer as well, capable of seeking out the undead. Volkmar couldn't deny their effectiveness in hunting ghouls, but he'd never seen a hunted go so far as to arm their pig before. "Don't doubt it. Almost everything is haunted in Sylvania, so when they have to distinguish a place as haunted, be extra careful."

"We will show due caution," Volkmar assured Emil, "but we cannot afford to wait any longer. Give the order to assemble, we march. Hans, will Gelt be able to follow us?"

Hans nodded. "I will inform my second. Otto will pass the word of our path to the Supreme Patriarch when he arrives, he will be able to follow us."

Jovi Sunscryer, the white wizard coughed to get their attention. "And I will magically light our way for the Patriarch, with your leave."

Volkmar didn't doubt that von Carstein would be able to detect such magical signals, but his power seeped into the ground, and he would likely find out anyway. "You have it. Let none be of any doubt, gentlemen," he continued. "At stake is the Empire itself, we must recover the Crown of Sorcery from Mannfred, whatever the cost."

 _The Haunted Hills_

"Well well priest, that was faster than I expected," Mannfred mused to himself atop Drakenhof's tower. He knew that Volkmar would come to him eventually, such an insult as stealing from his vault demanded his attention, but he had thought it would be a while yet. No matter, this was his ground and he would not lose here.

He was already funnelling the coming army into his chosen battlefield. He had sent Walach Harkon and the Order of the Blood Dragon to reinforce Fort Oberstyre, to make the approach via Oberstyre and Templehof undesirable; at the same time he had switched the garrisons of Schwartzhafen and Naubonum out with new ones, the old garrisons had been vampires with local knowledge and not mediocre soldiers, the new ones were led by petty Necromancers who thought themselves the next Kemmler, believed themselves far better than they were. They had been enough of a nuisance at Drakenhof, so Mannfred allowed them this 'honour' to attract the crusade to them. After those petty towns had fallen, Mannfred would meet the enemy on the field of battle atop the haunted hills, where he could destroy the Crusade and claim his second prize for the final ritual.

There was still no news of the liche. Arkhan's puppets had returned and passed on their message, but who knew where he was now. He nursed a private hope that Arkhan was dead, but Mannfred suspected his luck didn't extend that far.

He looked up at the rattling of a cart that came over. He smiled. Ghorst had answered his call, as he knew he would. Ghorst was one of the most natural necromancers that Mannfred had ever met, and driven as well, not a petty, futile desire for power, like that which drove Kemmler or most others. No, Ghorst's drive was to restore his dead brothers. He had managed only to raise them as zombies for now, and their shambling, lifeless bodies were dragging the cart in place of oxen, with more corpses piled on in place of grain. Mannfred offered him more for service, and as long as he held that over him, Helmann Ghorst would serve. "My lord Mannfred," he said, his brothers coming to a halt and Ghorst jumping from the corpse he was sat on onto the ground. "You called."

Mannfred nodded. "I did, there will soon be a battle here, and you will assist me in defeating the enemy."

Ghorst nodded. "As you desire," he bowed his head. "Then I can return to my work."

"Serve well, and I will assist you further," Mannfred assured the Necromancer. "Ready your soldiers, and make sure they do the same," he jerked his head in the direction of the other five necromancers who had accompanied him. These were middling sorcerers, and would be capable of raising and sustaining the hordes of zombies and skeleton warriors that would make up a good portion of his battle line. Better still, they were just the right level of coward. They feared just enough that they would stay at the rear of his army, where they could work their spells in safety, but also feared him so much that they wouldn't dare flee the field.

Ghorst nodded and approached the lesser Necromancers. The contingent of Drakenhof Templars, vampire knights sworn to the ancestral keep of von Carstein, remained behind as he descended into the barrows of the haunted hills.

He had been careful to mask the presence of the warriors in these barrows, have their potential lost thanks to some would be necromancer practicing his parlour tricks. They were cold, dank and musty, with thick cobwebs on the sarcophagi and worms twisting in the mud. Ignoring the filth, he opened his mouth and began to chant. "Nacafareh, Aschigar, vos maloth Nagashizzar…" A few seconds later muffled, grinding sounds emanated from the tombs around him, the chink of metal cutting over the noise of shuffling bone and the rustle of ancient syllables. One by one the skeletal, heavily armoured forms of the Sternsmen jerked themselves from their rest and stood up straight. Mildewed sockets gaped and scaled armour gleamed menacingly in the darkness. Half a dozen warriors stood there, then a dozen, then two dozen, then more, and Mannfred knew it was a scene being mimicked in every barrow in the Haunted Hills. The largest of the ancient warriors had come from the largest cairn, as was ever the way with the pre-Sigmarite tribes. It wore a high crown of bronze and a tattered cloak of holed green leather that fluttered and snapped in a breeze no mortal man could feel. A rustling voice rattled in the von Carstein's head as the ancient king turned its empty eyes towards him. **"What is thy command, oh lord?"** King Verek asked.

"Stand ready, King Verek. You need only wait a little longer, then, when I give my command, you will join my fight, and slake your blades in the blood of the living."

" **By your command, oh lord,"** Verek said as more warriors rose. From beside the greatest of them came skeletal steeds, wit rotten caparisons and rusted buckles on their saddles.

"Yes," Mannfred replied, smiling satisfactorily. "By _my_ command."

 _Schwartzhafen_

The necromancer cackled hysterically as the fire rose all around him, snapping like whips, the smoke obscuring his pallid face and oily hair. Emil stepped back from the pyre, even in defeat, strapped to the cleansing pyre, the necromancer still believed that he was beyond the reach of death. He was the last of the coven that had been ordered to defend Schwartzhafen. Three of his companions had died in the storming of the town, while the other two had tried to escape. Emil had led the hunt for them and caught them trying to raise another graveyard to do their bidding. A shot from each of his pistols ended their fell ritual, and this last one, captured in the battle, was given to the flames on his return.

"Nothing like the scream of monsters, eh Ash?" He asked, looking down at his pig. The old girl wasn't disturbed by the fires, focussed on the ghoul ear she was happily chomping her way through.

"Hunter." He turned to face Lupio Blaze. The Tilean captain and his men had led the charge at Schwartzhafen. Men from the south followed their own god of war, Myrmidia. She was present in the Empire, but the worship of Sigmar and Ulric overshadowed her by far. At first, Volkmar wasn't best pleased to have them, citing reasons of faith, but thankfully he acquiesced, Blaze's men had proven their worth so far, and Emil was certain that they would again.

"What is it?" Emil asked, scratching Ash behind the ears.

"Now that you're done, the old man wants to see us all."

Emil nodded. "Lead the way then."

Volkmar had taken an old temple of Morr as his own. Emil noted that, just like every church, shrine and temple he had encountered, the holy symbols had been ripped off, likely either buried or burned. When he caught sight of Volkmar, Emil had to wonder whether or not he was sleeping, there were bags under his eyes and he was less vehement than usual. "We can afford rest for one day," Volkmar said to Leitdorf, not acknowledging their entrance in the least. "But that's all, we must press on.

"The army cannot maintain this pace for much longer," Hans said. "They need to rest." That was true enough. The pace across Sylvania had been gruelling, long marches, little time to rest or eat, all inspired by Volkmar, but even his infectious energy was starting to wear, with only the Flagellants being as zealous as they had started. "If all von Carstein has to do to gain the powers of the crown is put it on then it wouldn't matter if we marched with the will of Sigmar, we won't get there in time to stop him. We must be at full fighting fitness to manage this."

"He's right, Grand Theogonist," Emil said. "That we've made it this far is mostly due to the lack of resistance. But we can be safely assured that von Carstein will not be defenceless. We must be at fighting strength." In truth the lack of resistance worried Emil. Aside from two nests of rabid ghouls and one upturned graveyard, they'd not faced any resistance to their invasion. It unnerved him, and not even their outriders had reported threats.

"Give our men the chance to rest," said Lupio proudly. "Let them regain their fire so they can carry it to the crypts of Drakenhof itself." Against his two primary commanders, Volkmar couldn't object.

And so the Crusade pulled into Schwartzhafen for a rest before they moved onwards. The rest did a great deal to restore their nerves in the darkness of Sylvania. But when they pressed on, they couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched.

As they pressed on they still encountered no resistance, not even at the town of Naubonum or when they entered the Haunted Hills, in truth little more than barrows, rather than true hills. But then, half a day into crossing the hills, they saw the assembled army of Mannfred von Carstein, standing silent across from them. Volkmar had wanted a battle. Well here it was.

Mannfred chuckled. Volkmar was so predictable; his desperation to restore his honour led him to follow the path than Mannfred had lain out. Humans could so often be like mice, lay a trail of cheese and they would follow it to the end. Now here he was, his army unfurling like an iron rose to confront his larger force across the Haunted Hills. Only one thing gave Mannfred pause, the banners of the Order of Sigmar's Blood. Hans Leitdorf had been Mannfred's greatest foe in the southern Empire for decades, a constant vigil on his borders, his knights thwarting every expansion to the west and south, and his knights, and likely and him had accompanied the army. He would have to keep watch for them, they were the greatest threat standing against him.

"Do we attack?" Asked Ghorst, sat cross legged atop his cart of corpses, pulled by his brothers.

"No, Ghorst," Mannfred replied softly. "Let them come, let them spend their zeal against us. Remember, I have a special task for you in this fight. Do not be distracted by the battle."

"As you say," Ghorst said, bowing his hooded head.

Mannfred sucked in a breath and let out a piercing scream across the battlefield into the hearts of the enemy warriors, a challenge to the Crusaders. They answered it with trumpets and war cries as they advanced on him.

The crusaders fired the first shot, when a burning beam of white light lanced through the air, catching one of his Vargheists in the chest, burning a hole straight through it. So the crusaders had brought a Luminark had they? So be it. A fireball was launched at his zombies. A bright wizard too. It immolated a group of them, but didn't even scratch their numbers. Four flashes lit up the darkness before heavy iron cannonballs tore through ranks of his thralls, pounding bone to dust. Streaks of fire in the night sky heralded the arrival of rockets before they too slammed into his battle line. Mannfred's army was unmoving and took the punishment without fear.

As the crusaders approached they revealed more and more of their weapons. A volley of handgun fire turned a group of skeletons into dust, while crossbowmen took aim and loosed their quarrels into the air, trying to reach his beasts. Finally, when they were close enough, another wail of trumpets send them into a charge.

Screaming with frenzied fury, the Tattersouls and other groups of Flagellants hurled themselves into his line of zombies with reckless abandon, hacking their way through them with no regard for their own safety. In the middle of their mass was the War Altar of Sigmar, Volkmar on the prow directing his warriors with battle prayers. On the flanks blocks of state troops pushed against his skeleton warriors, shields locked and sergeants directing their advances. Wary of being flanked, the crusaders sent many of their knights in against Mannfred's own undead horsemen. On the crusader right, Lupio Blaze led a might charge against them, lances shattering on impact, meanwhile on the left a detachment of Leitdorf's knights struck his other forces, swords flashing as they hacked through his men. The bright wizard accompanied them, sending spells of fire into the enemy like a dragon, lashing at them. At his word, the knight's blades were wreathed in fire, letting them burn the undead with every swipe.

Mannfred sat above it all, goading the old man to come after him while using his magics to sustain his army or hurl blasts of dark power down upon the enemy. All according to plan.

Emil kept low to the ground as he made his way around the outskirts of the battlefield. Witch Hunters knew how to fight, when needs be, but a sprawling mass of men was not where he could be the most effective. Mortal armies marched on their stomachs, but the undead required a stream of dark magic to preserve them, magic provided by Necromancers. While Volkmar's holy army cut it's way through the massive undead host, Emil would be hunting, he was to target and eliminate the sorcerers providing the magical meat for the army.

Unfortunately, with two great armies clashing, getting around one flank or the other was no small feat, and so he, Ash and the small force of soldiers he'd been provided, a knight of Sigmar's Blood, four men from Sigmar's Sons and three spearmen from the Stir Watch regiment of spearmen. "We should be in there," groaned one of the Sons. "Not skulking around like some feral dog."

"By 'skulking around' we'll do more for this battle than you hacking through a few dozen mindless corpses," Emil reminded him. "Now keep silent and come with me." They circled around the right flank, where Lupio Blaze's knights were caught in a swirling melee with the skeletal knights raised by von Carstein. None of them taking the slightest bit of notice. Not that it would have mattered, these were simply dead bodies reanimated by necromancy, they couldn't shout warnings or pass on messages. That was why they relied on bats, ghouls and other beasts to scout for them, but not on this day.

Soon they were behind the battle line, and they saw their first target – a hunched, skeletal figure, clutching a crooked staff and with a hood pulled over his head, from his belt hung a trio of differently sized skulls and he was watching the battle as though mesmerised. Emil drew one of his pistols, cocking it and taking aim. One well aimed shot was all it would take.

Ash jabbed at his led with her armoured head. "What is it?" He demanded, looking down. The pig jerked her head to the right and Emil felt himself pale. "Look out!"

Half a dozen direwolves were upon them before they could react. Two of the Stir Watch were bowled over before they could react, throats torn out by the beasts. Emil turned his gun on one of them and fired, the crack of the bullet whipping through the air audible even over the sounds of battle. He didn't have time to draw his other one, so pulled out his sword. He tucked into a roll dodging the next wolf, cutting out at it's legs, but missing by inches. He rolled to his feet and turned to face the wolf again. This was no problem, he'd faced these beasts before. He dropped his sword to the ground as the beast leapt at him again. He leapt up and caught the wolf, wrapping an arm around it's neck before pulling out his dagger and hacking into it's throat as it fought in vain to break his grip.

He dropped the wolf only to find another one charging at him. He grabbed his scabbard as he was knocked over, raising it up and jamming it between the wolf's jaws to keep them from ripping him apart as he tried to fight the beast off, but it was too strong. He was saved when, with a great squeal, a mass of armoured hogflesh slammed into the wolf's head, the sharp edges of the armour slicing into the wolf hide. The wolf recoiled from Ash which gave Emil the time he needed to draw his pistol and shoot it in the head, dropping it to the ground with a heavy thud. "Thanks Ash, that's another I owe you."

He scrambled to his feet and reloaded his pistol as the others dealt with the last wolves and the zombies that had broken from the army. He lined up the necromancer in his sights. He pulled the trigger and the necromancer jerked stiffly, a red mist blasting from the back of his head before his slumped to the ground, staff rolling away.

A shudder ran through the nearby undead, several falling lifeless to the ground, the others becoming uncoordinated, allowing the crusaders to push their advance freshly.

"A hand!" Yelled a voice and Emil turned to see that the knight that'd accompanied him had one foot stuck in the hill. The others raced over to pull his foot from the hill. With a heave they managed to pull the steel plated foot from the dirt. "What in Sigmar's name was that, a rabbit hole?"

He bent over to look and recoiled.

Emil glanced down and saw why, there was a skull looking out at him, a crack going through the middle of it where the knight's foot had landed on it. "What in the-?" Emil dropped down and took hold of the skull. He pulled it up and saw the top of the spine underneath it, and another skull further down.

"Why is there a skull in a hill?" Asked one of the sons, but Emil just paled, looking around at the hillocks the battle was being fought over and realising the extent of von Carstein's trap. "Because this isn't a hill. None of these are hills. They're barrows."

Everything was going according to Mannfred's plan, the Crusaders were cutting into his army, but failing to break through at any location. He was carefully managing the line from here, letting blocks of zombies and skeletons fall apart so the Crusaders could push on in and get surrounded on multiple sides, locked into combat. He felt a shudder of power on his left flank. One of his necromancers had been slain. No matter, the line could hold well enough. His eyes found Volkmar in the battle line, his hammer raining down on Mannfred's soldiers, smashing bones and crushing skulls, his fiery rhetoric inspiring the crusaders to fight on with greater zeal with every moment. But it would all be for nought.

As he had been for these past decades, Hans Leitdorf was being a constant thorn in Mannfred's side, commanding a powerful reserve of knights and other cavalry. He would have preferred to wait longer, have Leitdorf engaged before springing his trap, but if one of his necromancers had fallen he couldn't wait any longer. He raised his arms and channelled his power, letting it swirl around him before slamming it into the ground, seeping through the dirt and into the cairns underneath. He then turned his attention back to his army, holding it solidly in place, reinforcing the bindings that held them and keeping them in the fight. Longer, stiffening his anvil as his magical call was answered. Barrow after Barrow opened underneath the crusader army, now locked in combat, and King Verek led his warriors out and suddenly the crusaders, thus far on the defensive, had another army at their back. Mannfred let his face curl into a sneer. The interlopers were trapped like rats, and now they could be slaughtered. "Ghorst, get ready to take our prize, this will all be over soon."

"Monster!" Cried a voice, flowing with the accents of the south. He turned and saw a group of knights charging in from the left. Knights of the Blazing Sun, their leader, sword raised high, was the one who had accosted him.

"Yes?" He asked mockingly.

"Return the crown, thief. Or I will take your head along with it."

Mannfred's only reply was to draw his sword.

"Damn von Carstein!" Hans Leitdorf swore as the hills opened and another army of the undead swarmed out behind the main crusader battle line. "Redirect fire, cut them down now!" He ordered. The cannon and Luminark crews moved desperately to turn their war machines to fire on the undead. A volley of fire from the pistols of the free company, kept in reserve to defend the canons, powdered several skeletons, an early shot from a cannon fired over their heads and out of sight. "Maintain fire!" He ordered as a line of skeletal warriors lined up to face them, but yet more were heading back and around, closing on the unprotected rear of the main battle line. "No time," he cursed, drawing his sword. "Sound the charge, in Sigmar's name, take them head on!"

He and his knights charged towards the enemy, who's undead horsemen did the same. They came together with a great crash of splintered lances and battered shields. He raised his sword and cut across the first of the enemy he came across, parting old bones like bamboo shoots as he cut off the arm with the first cut and the head with the second. They were engaged in a sprawling melee, but his knights were some of the finest in the Empire, with no equal in battling undead hosts. "Fight on, for Sigmar!" He roared, taking blows from the left and dealing them to the right as, slowly the living were able to turn the dead back. But they were still stuck on a quagmire, with skeleton footmen being thrown into the melee to hold back his knights. He split the skull of one of them and tried to catch sight of the main line, but it was impossible behind the swirling mass of the enemy.

He fought on, slaying three more enemies before he encountered more of a challenge – an armoured warrior with an ornate blade and a black iron crown resting on the top of his skull. This must be their leader. He attacked, hacking and slashing at the undead king who met and replied every blow. They spun around each other, trying to find holes in each other's defences. But finally Hans had met a foe that matched him, he started to feel the fatigue settle into his muscles, but the undead king wasn't so affected, attacking with as much willpower as before. But then, when Leitdorf raised his blade to protect his head the undead king's sword snapped upon contact. Seizing his chance he lashed out, taking his head with one quick blow and ending the fight. As the undead king slumped down, Hans noticed that his armour was reddening with rust before his eyes and when he hit the ground it all but fell apart. He looked down at his sword, which was glinting with a sharpness he hadn't seen before.

The melee had turned in an instant, his men's weapons were sharpened and sliced through the enemy's rusting blades and armour like butter and soon the combat ended. A volley of bullets slammed into the back of the barrow infantry, who had surrounded much of the Crusader main line. He turned and saw a large unit of outriders pouring in the bullets while another unit of Imperial knights charged at them, lances lowered. Not one of them had been there at the start of the battle. Reinforcements? He spurred his mount to the outriders. "Who are you?" He demanded when he approached them.

Their leader turned to him. "Captain Helbrecht Mann of the Bloodpine Outriders, sir, we have come to assist you."

"Alone?" The Bloodpine woods were near Altdorf, what were the outriders doing here if they hadn't come with Volkmar?

Captain Helbrecht shook his head and pointed into the air. "No sir, we came with the Patriarch."

Hans looked into the air and understood what had happened in the melee. Sat astride his Pegasus, Staff of Volans raised high and glowing with power, and his shimmering cloak around him was Balthazar Gelt, the loremaster of metal. He was using his powers to assist the crusader army. But he was not unchallenged. It would seem von Carstein had recognised the threat and had sent a trio of Vargheists at the Supreme Partriarch. "Protect Lord Balthazar!" Helbrecht ordered and his men raised their guns and fired. Two of the Vargheists were downed, bullets tearing holes in their wings and they twisted, screaming in defiance to the ground where they were set upon. The third was downed when a great golden arrow erupted from Balthazar, slamming into the Vargheist's chest and killing it, the arrow dissipating as the beast fell from the sky.

"We must return to the battle," Hans said, turning his horse.

"There's no need," Helbrecht said. "The Supreme Patriarch means to end it now."

"How?"

He felt a sudden pulling on his neck. His holy warhammer pendant was wriggling like a snake trying to escape being held fast. "What the-" Suddenly it shot high into the air, he reached up to grab it, but it was too quick as it hovered twenty feet above them. He saw the holy symbols of his men rising into the air as well and the ground cracked as more and more holy symbols flew into the air. It wasn't just holy hammers of Sigmar, but wolf pendants of Ulric, pennies of Morr, even a few pendants of Shallya were raised high into the air, some from the men, but dozens more ripped from the earth. The crusaders cheered at the sight of such holy faith and their energies were restored, their faith redoubled as they fought back against the undead surrounding them. But that was not all. Hans raised his arm to cover his eyes as the holy symbols of faith glowed with their holy power and, with a mighty boom of holy wrath, the blasted the undead with holy power. In an instant, half of von Carstein's army was blasted to pieces, with more and more falling apart by the second. Hans set his sights on the survivors with a smile of pleasure, raising his sword, he led his men into the battle as they charged down the last of the undead army, outnumbered and directionless as they were slaughtered almost to a man.

Emil panted as he drew his sword from the zombie. The battle had been long and arduous, but victory was theirs, though at what price? The crusader battle line had been surrounded for a time, pressed on all sides. For every man hunched over, catching his breath, or who still had the energy to celebrate their victory, at least two more lay dead on the ground. Some regiments had fared better than others. The Stir Watch had not suffered much, having locked their spears and shields together to keep the encroaching enemies back, but less than one in ten of the Flagellants had survived, those that had were already back to wailing to the heavens.

"Ash!" He called out, looking for his faithful companion. Hearing a familiar whimper come from behind him he turned and saw a small trotter sticking out from beneath a zombie. He rushed over and heaved the undead mass over, rolling it off his armoured pig. Beneath it lay Ash, with a watery eye looking up at him pitifully. Looking down he saw why, one of her legs was broken. "There there," he said, soothingly, rubbing her snout softly. "It's okay Ash, it's going to be okay," he continued, rolling her so that she wasn't resting on it. Looking around he spotted a fallen banner to his right, the blazing sun half obscured by mud. He picked up the banner and measured it against one of Ash's other legs, cutting it off at the right length and tearing off the cloth. He gently righted Ash's leg, making her squealing in pain, but it was for the best. When the bone was roughly set, he set the broken part of the standard against it before using the banner to bind it tightly up in a cast. "There you go," he said gently. "You're going to be okay."

Pain flaring through his exhausted muscles he heaved Ash up, carrying her with him until he could find a cart to carry her back on. He made his way past the survivors of Sigmar's Sons, reclaiming the weapons and shields of the fallen; past the few remaining Knights of the Blazing Sun, gathered around in a circle, their weapons limp at their sides and their shields battered and worn. He approached and saw the body of Lupio Blaze lying in their midst, a ragged hole through one eye. "What happened?" He asked.

"He confronted von Carstein," replied one of the knights, not questioning Emil carrying a pig. Lupio had accompanied him against one of the ghoul nests, along with several knights, and had seen Ash's value in person. "He fought valiantly, but was overcome."

Emil nodded. Lupio was fiery, hot headed even. "Where is von Carstein?"

"Fled," spat another knight. "When the patriarch's weapon of faith emerged he fled with his vampiric contingent and his last two necromancers."

Then it was over. With their losses even Volkmar had to admit that continuing now was impossible, they'd lost far too many men. Emil turned and trudged onwards, he had t find Volkmar and Hans Leitdorf, and the Supreme Patriarch, where they could decide their next course of action.

"Can you not move this weapon with us?" Hans asked Bathazar Gelt. "Let it accompany us all the way to Drakenhof, destroying the undead as it passes?"

"No," replied the Supreme Patriarch. "Von Carstein's power is greater the closer we are to the heart of Sylvania. Maintaining it here is challenge enough, but if I am to maintain this barrier it must be brought back to the Sylvanian border."

"Barrier?" Hans asked.

Balthazar turned to him and nodded. "Yes, this wall of faith will surround Sylvania, keeping von Carstein and his fell minions trapped inside Sylvania until Franz is ready to crush them. If this is to be the fourth Vampire War, it will be on our terms, Mannfred will not invade at will, and this time we will not merely drive a sword through Sylvania's heart, we will bring about it's utter destruction. But it will all be for nought if we cannot maintain the barrier."

Hans had hoped this might be his final victory over the Vampires, that he could end the threat forever with this invasion, but apparently not. "Worry not, Leitdorf," Gelt said, apparently sensing his thoughts. He wouldn't be surprised if that's what it was. "Your strength is not spent, and you have the most experience of war in Sylvania of all in the Empire. When Franz arrives, you will be in the vanguard that brings about von Carstein's demise. But for now we must find Volkmar and retreat."

The two of them made their way through the survivors, looking for the crusade's leader. But it was not to be, the sense of hope that filled Hans when the holy symbols burst from the ground faded from him. In the chaos of battle, Mannfred von Carstein had escaped. Worse, the War Altar of Sigmar lay upturned among a sea of fallen zombies and Flagellants – with Volkmar the Grim nowhere to be seen.


	7. 1-7

_Lothern – Ulthuan_

Alarielle had never before met a wound she could not heal with time and effort, but Finubar's body refused to knit itself back together at her command. But that wasn't all. She could feel something... wrong about this wound. It was more than flesh deep, more than damaged organs, Finubar's very soul had been damaged. Even in his presence she could feel the hungry gaze of Slaanesh, looking to devour the Phoenix King as soon as he slipped from this world. "Come on!" She hissed, pushing her power into his body, desperate to bring him back. Ulthuan needed Finubar's guidance right now – Aliathra had been taken by something unknown, the princes circled the Phoenix Throne like vultures and Tyrion would soon set out to find Aliathra, if he had to rip the world apart to do so, then so be it.

Finubar let out a soft croak, he was still here, but he was weak. "Ali," he moaned.

He was speaking. She latched onto that and sent her power into him seeping into his pores. She had her opening and that was all she needed. A little colour returned to Finubar's cheeks as she could feel life fill him again. But it was still hollow, wounded. "Alarielle," he whispered.

"Finubar," she replied, relieved that he recognised her for who she was. "Don't worry, you're going to be alright."

"Ali," he said, ignoring her. "He took her!"

"What?" She almost lost her concentration, did Finubar know who took her? Where she was?

From behind her she heard the cling of axe blades crossing. "You may not pass," declared Captain Korhil.

Alarielle turned. One of her handmaidens stood beyond his ring of guards. It was a bold man who stood against one of the Everqueen's handmaidens, but Korhil was not risking anything near the king he had failed to protect.

"It's... fine, Korhil," Finubar said, grunting as he propped himself up.

Korhil, a flash of relief across his face at seeing his king move once more, gestured and his White Lions stepped aside.

The handmaiden stepped forward. "My lady, the Princes arguments are growing more vehement. Something must be done to stop them."

"The princes are gathered?" Finubar asked.

She placed her hand on his shoulder, gently pressing him back down to the bed. "They are," she told him. "Though without you there they are achieving nothing."

"Take me to them," Finubar insisted.

"My king, you are wounded," Korhil insisted.

Finubar held his hand up for quiet. "Can you maintain your magics on the move?" Finubar asked Alarielle.

She scoffed. "Of course I can. But you will be forever damaged in the eyes of the princes if you go into that chamber on a litter."

"So be it," Finubar declared. "But I must be there. Korhil, bring a litter."

With a heavy heart, Korhil ordered half a dozen men to bring a royal litter to carry Finubar to the Princes' council.

They could hear the raised voice of Prince Tyrion before the heavy doors were opened, his rage humming through the air like a drum beat. Finubar took a moment to ready himself before nodding at Korhil. Korhil's palms slammed into the heavy wooden doors like battering rams, sending them flying open and bringing the raging debate of the Princes to a halt. After a moment's pause, Korhil called out. "The Phoenix King Finubar!" The White Lions carried Finubar through the hall, with all the princes looking down on him in wonder, muttering to themselves. Already Finubar was less than he had been, a wounded husk. Those most in his favour were concerned, those out of favour were looking to shore up new allegiences and Prince Tyrion's rage wouldn't be stifled by the sight of his King. But when Alarielle followed him, they fell silent. Never before had Phoenix King and Phoenix Queen been in the council together, and the usual politicking was put on hold with their presence.

When they arrived, Finubar asked Korhil to raise him to his throne. Pain lanced through his insides like a thousand scarabs chewing on his organs, but he could command nothing from a litter. Korhil gently lowered Finubar to his seat and stood close at hand as Alarielle subtly sustained him with her powers. Before Finubar had come, Tyrion had been in the ascendant, stood in the middle of the princes like a champion of order and authority, with the arrival of the Phoenix King, even as he was accompanied by Tyrion's consort, he suddenly looked like a prisoner at judgement. With a glance from Alarielle he bowed and stepped back to the edges of the room, allowing Finubar to speak freely.

"The Everchild has been taken," Finubar told them, pain lacing through every syllable. "Aliathra must be recovered, and soon."

"If she still lives," commented Eltharion, the Warden of Tor Evresse.

"She lives," Finubar replied. "I know it." He could feel her essence still humming through his medallion, she was doing as he had told her. "It is where she is that we must focus on now.

"It doesn't matter!" Tyrion declared fiercely. "I will tear apart the world to find the Everchild."

Finubar held up his hand for silence and Tyrion backed down. "That won't be necessary. Belannaer." Finubar's closest advisor stepped forward and bowed. Finubar reached up and took off his amulet, holding it out to him.

Curiously Belannaer took it and Finubar felt the warmth of Aliathra's life snatch away from him. After a few seconds his eyes widened in surprise. "This is her."

He nodded. "It is, can you follow it?"

Belannaer closed his eyes and concentrated on the amulet. "Yes," he said. "I feel the source. Aliathra is being held in the dark desmene of Sylvania, the Eastern Province of the Empire."

"Then it is there that I will go, this affront will not go unpunished."

"Not yet," Finubar said, stemming Tyrion's fury once again. "We must move quickly, but not rashly. There is more to this than a simple kidnapping. I fear worse. The being that took the Everchild is Arkhan the Black, foremost servant of the Great Necromancer Nagash." Not everyone around the hall knew what that meant, so absorbed were they in the introverted politics of Ulthuan, but a few did. Belannaer's expression tightened grimly, Korhil looked at his king in alarm and he heard Alarielle's breath hitch.

"Are you sure?" Alarielle asked.

Finubar nodded. "I am. Arkhan the Black has only one purpose, one goal to his existence, to restore Nagash to power, and if he has taken Aliathra then he needs her for that purpose. He must be prevented, and we will gather support for that end. Belannaer, you will go to the court of Emperor Karl Franz. Alert him to the danger happening in his Empire and ask for permission for an expedition, led by Prince Tyrion to invade Sylvania, try to get his aid if at all possible. Depart today. Prince Tyrion, you will ready a force to invade Sylvania and recover Aliathra and, if at all possible, bring about the end of Arkhan the Black for good, and whatever allies he has gathered. Alarielle." He turned to the Everqueen. "There is another force that can aid us. The Asrai of Athel Loren. Go to them, ask their help in doing so."

"If I go," Alarielle replied, her voice radiating strength as she maintained her magics on Finubar, "you will die. No one else will be able to sustain you."

Finubar nodded grimly. "No Asur will be safe if Nagash is reborn. And I would gladly give my life to see the Everchild restored." He looked into Alarielle's eyes and she saw the truth there. The blood of Asuryan, blessed by his flames, may not flow through Aliathra's veins, but he was her father. "Do this for me." He continued, leaving the threat he had once issued unspoken, but very real.

She nodded and returned to sustaining Finubar's body through this last meeting with the Elven Princes. "Prince Imrik of Caledor," he called and the Prince of Caledor, silver haired Prince Imrik, stood from his seat and knelt before Finubar. Caledor was the home of the Dragons, and now, only Imrik could wake more dragons from their slumber. "You will serve as the regent of Ulthuan until a new Phoenix King can be chosen and walk through the flames."

Murmurs spread around the hall at that. What did this mean? Was Finubar designating a successor? Did he simply believe that Imrik of Caledor was the best suited to defend Ulthuan with the hero of the Finuval Plains abroad. But he could feel the objections of others radiating from them. It was not the place of the Phoenix King to _determine_ their successor. Finubar was the first Phoenix King who had been the desired successor to his predecessor, and many Asur princes were unhappy about that, the thought of the tradition continuing irked them. "This is not the common practice," Finubar admitted to the princes. "Normally a new King is chosen upon the death of the previous one, and they serve as regent until they walk through the flames. But these are not normal times. I would have you swear that you will support Imrik in the defence of Ulthuan. At the same time, Imrik I would have you swear that you will allow a proper election to the Phoenix Throne to take place."

"You have my word," Imrik declared, bowing his head. Of course he couldn't force his way to the throne, even with a regency. But it would give him influence to press his case for succeeding Finubar. He would protect Ulthuan, and that would give him the legitimacy to put his own name forward for the Phoenix crown when the matter with Aliathra was settled.

Finubar nodded and looked to each prince in turn, extracting their oaths that they would serve in the interests of protecting Ulthuan.

"Then we are done here." Finubar declared. "Tyrion, Imrik, Belannaer, go, oversee preparations. Alarielle, you should make ready as well."

Finubar got unsteadily to his feet and Korhil assisted him back to his litter. They filed out, Alarielle still sustaining Finbuar's crippled body and soul.

"Where shall we take you, my king?" Korhil asked once the doors had been closed behind them.

"Take him to a waystone of Eataine," Alarielle told him. "One to which he is bound."

Finubar looked up at her. "Why?"

She soothed his pain with her powers. "Because your soul is damaged, and if you are to avoid the hunger of She Who Thirsts claiming your soul, you must be as close to one as possible, where the other souls can protect you and bring you in."

Finubar nodded and she could feel his relief that his soul would not be taken by Slaanesh. "Thank you, Alarielle. Accompany me there, and send for my son. Then go to Athel Loren and see that Aliathra is returned."

"I will," she said at once. Finubar may have been a better father than she had been a mother to Aliathra, but she would do what she could to see her daughter returned. "You have my word."

"Good," he said, letting his eyes close. "And Korhil. When she is brought back, tell Aliathra that I'm sorry."

Korhil bowed his head to the King who had raised him to his position. "I swear sire, I will."

Finubar closed his eyes as they carried him away. He had tried to serve Ulthuan as best he could. But there was so much he wished he had time to do. He wished he could see his son rise higher, see Ali brought back safely. But it was not to be. Still, perhaps with his decision to name Imrik as regent, Alarielle and Tyrion would be denied the chance to become Phoenix King and Everqueen. Finubar had brought Tyrion into his circle, he recognised Tyrion's talents and strength, if he were to become King the Asur would have a valiant and dedicated protector. But here at the end, all Finubar could think about was that Tyrion had stolen his daughter. He couldn't forgive him for that.

 _Castle Drakenhof – Sylvania_

Gelt had become Mannfred's favourite curse word in the days since Sylvania had been encased in a wall of faith. In the weeks since his return from the battle he had gone to his repository of knowledge and grimoires and been working spells and rituals to try and break it, but it had proven more powerful or more subtle than he had thought a normal human would have been capable of. No matter what powers he drew upon, the barrier held strong. He could feel the power of the Crown of Nagash behind him, boring into the back of his skull, urging him to put it on. He had given in to the call once, on the way back from Altdorf, but had ripped it off within moments. The call of Nagash was too strong for him, and he wouldn't put it on again, not yet, not until he had the means of controlling it. Then he would tear this wall down, and congratulate Gelt on forging it – just before killing him.

He descended into the depths of Drakenhof, until Arkhan returned he could do nothing to continue with the ritual, so instead he would see, one more time, if he could break Vlad. Though he knew learning the location of the ring meant nothing, if it was outside Sylvania it was outside his reach.

Vlad was hanging just as Mannfred had left him, emaciated, feeble and swaying gently. He took up the cloth he left in the bowl of blood used to feed Vlad and slapped him across the face with it, leaving a bloody smear across his face. Vlad's eyes cracked open at the affront. "Ah, so you've returned, boy," he said. "Come to torment me again?"

"Why not?" Mannfred replied, with a smile on his face. "I find there are so few pastimes as lord of Sylvania these days, I have little better to do? How did you stand it?" Vlad didn't reply. "Oh and look what I found the other day." He snapped his fingers and four skeletons entered. The first carried a longsword, beautifully decorated with a heavy ruby in the pommel and a dangerous glint to the steel. The next brought a suit of armour, interlocking black steel bat wings forged together to form the protection, while a heavy red cloak fell from the shoulders. He heard Vlad growl and it delighted him. "It's your armour. And your old sword. I'll just leave them right here for you."

Vlad took several deep breaths and hissed. "I'm going to kill you, boy. You'll regret the day that you put those in front of me."

"No, I won't," Mannfred replied, shoving the cloth into Vlad's mouth. Despite his defiance, Vlad relied on the sustenance of blood, and so sucked like a baby at it's mother's breast to get as much as possible. "When Arkhan returns, my work will begin and you will be no more than a footnote."

The sound of sucking stopped abruptly. Vlad spat out the cloth, blood ringing his mouth. "Arkhan? Arkhan the Black?"

Mannfred looked around in surprised. There was a tone of familiarity in Vlad's voice. "Yes," he replied, "Arkhan the Black."

"What are you doing boy?" Vlad demanded, for the first time since Mannfred had chained him, he sounded concerned. "What are you plotting with Arkhan the Black?!"

"With Arkhan, nothing truly. He wants what he always wants, to restore Nagash, but I'll take that power for my own."

"NO!" Vlad cried, writhing against his bonds for the first time since he'd been imprisoned. "Mannfred, you have no idea what you're toying with. Nagash is beyond you, you cannot bring him back!"

Mannfred laughed. Vlad von Carstein, fearful at last. How long he had been waiting for this. "I disagree, sire. I will take that power as it is summoned, before Nagash can take it for his own."

"You can't. You mustn't. Mannfred, you must strike the liche down. Do it now, the minute he returns, do not let him continue with his plan, you are not the master here, Nagash is. You cannot let him return! I can't let you."

"Oh Vlad," Mannfred replied. "You can't _stop_ me."

He turned to leave, his fun achieved for now. "I'll tell you where the ring is!" Vlad cried out and Mannfred paused. He turned slowly. "Strike down the liche, and I'll tell you everything."

Mannfred considered it. He could do that, but who was to say Vlad would do so. Arkhan had to see to the return of Nagash, it was his nature, but not Vlad. "I think not. Once that power is mine, that ring will become as much of a relic as you. Enjoy the sight of your armour and sword, Sire, farewell for now."

Vlad's roars of outrage followed him as he left the chamber. That had been more entertaining than he'd thought it would be.

Arkhan had entered Sylvania just in time to see it turned into a prison. The sour barrier of faith reeked of human magic, the yellow wind of Chamon, wielded by the brutes of the Empire. Arkhan knew little of their ways, though he had warred with them many times before. That there was one amongst them capable of conjuring such a barrier surprised Arkhan, that Mannfred had aggravated them to do so did not. The vampire lord of Sylvania liked to think himself subtle, but when it came to his pride, he was like a fox in a chicken cage.

It had been a narrow miss. The barrier was strong, each holy symbol adding to it's strength and flexibility. If he had been caught on the other side it would at best have been a delay, at worse, the Empire would have had time to grind Mannfred's realm to dust, capture or scatter the gathered artefacts and end the chance for Nagash to return and save the world from the encroaching armies of Chaos. But he was inside now and the work could continue. _"I see things did not go as well as you'd hoped for,"_ Arkhan told Mannfred as they met atop Drakenhof. _"Did you at least get what we needed for the ritual?"_ He could feel the call of Nagash from the Crown of Sorcery, but did he have the rest?

Mannfred didn't rise to Arkhan's taunt. "Indeed," he said. "I assume that is the last sacrifice," he gestured at the limp form of the Everchild of Ulthuan.

" _She is,"_ Arkhan confirmed, sliding her into the arms of Mannfred's skeletal servants. _"Yours?"_

Mannfred gestured and more skeletal servants dragged forward the bound form of Volkmar the Grim. In the chaos of the battle against the crusaders, Mannfred, having despatched that fiery knight, had swarmed the Grand Theogonist with Vargheists and Drakenhof Templars, dragging his war altar to the ground and seizing him. Mannfred had given him over to Ghorst's keeping and sent him back to Drakenhof with a heavy escort. He had remained behind to direct the destruction of the crusade army. If the army was destroyed then Volkmar would be assumed dead with them, but now, with a force surviving crusaders having retreated, they may well suspect that Volkmar was not merely slain. Franz was not a fool, neither was that bastard gold patriarch, and they may well be able to piece it together and strike before they were ready.

Arkhan nodded at the sight. He could feel the power in the blood of their captives. The blood of Sigmar flowed in Volkmar the Grim's veins and with the line of Isha from the Everchild, he could revive the spirit of Nagash.

" _Then we have what we need. Let us begin preparations."_

 _Nehekhara_

Settra waited atop the sand dune, Nekaph and his cohort of Tomb Guard standing around him. Rage seethed through his ancient bones. His march on Arkhan's Tower had met no resistance from Arkhan's fell spells or an army of the dead raised to oppose him as before. Instead when he'd arrived it had been infested by a swarm of rat people, wielding strange weapons and chittering incessantly. He had purged them of course, but the gall of them! Nehekhara was his. His! Arkhan's Tower may be his enemy's, but it was his realm. How dare they desecrate it! He had sent his Liche Priests scurrying away when he'd returned to Khemri, telling them to identify the rat men and where they came from, that he might have his vengeance.

But now, his anger vented, he had another matter to attend to. Arkhan hadn't been at his tower and without that knowledge, Settra couldn't stop the return of Nagash with his armies. But Settra knew more of war than any that walked the earth, and he knew that armies and battles were not the only paths to victory, there were others, and he had many strings he could pluck that would unravel Arkhan's tapestry. And so he had sent out word. If his charge didn't arrive soon, he would be late, and Settra would kill him for that. "He comes, almighty King," Nekaph said, stretching out a skeletal limb and pointing to the distance where a small shimmer of darkness appeared against the golden sand.

Apophas, the Scarab Prince approached Settra. Cursed for his murder of his family for the crown of Numas, Apophas had only escaped an eternity of torment by striking a deal with Usirian, the god of the Underworld. In exchange for a soul of equal weighting to his own, he would be allowed to pass on. His skull looked on vacantly, resting atop his body which was no more than a swarm of scarabs, flowing like a snake, with two arms still clutching the bloody blades with which he had slain his family.

He didn't speak when he approached Settra, he knew his place and, as much as his scarab body would allow, he bowed. "You have come, Apophas the Cursed Scarab. Good. We have no time. A great danger descends on Nehekhara. Nagash would seek to take all our souls for his own and usurp Usirian as the rightful god of the dead. Arkhan the Black would see this come to pass. The gall of him – to deny Usirian his rightful prize."

Apophas nodded. Usirian had given him a chance to avoid becoming a lost and tormented soul, and in so doing had one a leal servant in Apophas.

"I, Settra, King by all the rights of Usirian and Ptra, do command that you strike down Arkhan the Black, cast his soul down to Usirian. A soul so blackened so as to take from Usirian will no doubt be a worthy balance with your own tainted soul." Apophas' body flexed, already eager to set off, a chance to be free of his torment as the scarab lord always put fire in his bones. "Go. Hunt Arkhan the Black and strike him down in my name, in Usirian's name."

Apophas bowed once more and swept off across the desert, his mind locked on his target. The blood of his family would be wiped clean.

And so it was that, as the armies of Nehekhara were awakened, the cities fortified and great constructs made ready to defend their home, a single tortured soul struck out north to find his salvation, and in so doing, prevent the return of Nagash.


	8. 1-8

"Talabecland's armies are marching, Your Majesty," Helborg told Franz as they loomed over a map of the Empire, stretched across the hard mahogany table. "Count Feuerbach's armies are gathering at the city of Talabheim and will be moving to join the survivors of Volkmar's Crusade at Heldenhame within the week."

Karl Franz nodded, eying the distance between the two centres of imperial power. This was the largest deployment of imperial armies he had ever overseen. Not even at Black Fire Pass had he called upon the might of every province. But he knew well the lessons of the past. Vlad, Konrad and Mannfred – the three great Vampire Counts had led invasions that caused devastation over the Empire, the slaughter of untold thousands and tears in the very fabric of the Empire. Not now. This time the living would strike first. Volkmar's first strike had penetrated deep into Sylvania before being repelled, Gelt had sealed off the province following the defeat, allowing him to gather his troops, and on his order, the steel and gunpowder of the Empire's finest soldiers would bring an end to the von Carstein line once and for all.

"Gausser?" He asked his friend and Reiksmarshal.

Helborg shook his head grimly. "Nordland sends his regrets, but raids on his northern coasts force him to retain most of his army, he has sent several regiments to join Todbringer's mobilisation at Middenheim, however."

Regrettable, but Nordland's watch on his northern shores was a crucial duty, if the Norscans saw weakness they would board their longships to loot, pillage and murder as their barbaric kind was want to do. "I suppose the same is true of Nuln?"

Kurt nodded. "Countess Emmanuelle's husband Eben has sent soldiers to us, but many are needed at the southern border, Refugees from Tilea have been flooding up through the mountains, spreading tales of giant rats and plagues, they seek refuge within our borders."

Another matter he had hoped to see to, if the rumours they brought with them were what Franz thought they were, he would have to intervene there as well. He could send a message to Leoncouer for assistance, Tilea and Estalia seemed to both be falling under this threat, which meant that not only the Empire, but also Bretonnia was under threat. But the Empire was his responsibility, whatever his concern for the people of Tilea, the threat of von Carstein was greater and had to be his priority.

"But our forces are gathered, the armies of the Empire stand ready to serve."

Franz nodded. "Then let us pray to our Lord Heldenhammer for his guiding light to aid us against the undead."

A soft knock behind them made them turn. The thin form of Arne Damstadt, Karl Franz's Chamberlain and the man he was entrusting with Altdorf's direction in his absence. He wasn't a military man, but he knew the city well and his loyalty was beyond question. "Your Majesty, Reiksmarshall, the army has assembled."

"Thank you Arne," he replied. The Chamberlain stepped back and Franz followed Helborg out onto the balcony that looked out over the city, through the wide glass windows of the Imperial Palace.

His smile stretched across his face at the sight that greeted him. The army of Reikland, the finest in the world had gathered. Altdorf was a city of over one hundred thousand people, and yet the army would likely get lost in the complicated maze of streets, and so was gathered on the wide plains to the south, stood against the river Reik: Rank upon rank of state troops in the white and red of Reikland, men with swords and spears and halberds, hammering the ground like a drum, the perfectly synchronised beats rolling over the city in waves; columns of knights of various orders maintained their beasts in order, holding them from distressing against the sound of drums; batteries of siege engines were lined up with their crews. While the majority of the army was outside, the best of them were in the grand square of the city. The finest knights in the Empire, the Reiksguard, the Imperial Knights raised their lances to him in perfect salute while the Greatswords held up their huge blades with one hand to his appearance. In the sun, their armour and weapons shone with a radiant elegance that would put a cathedral to shame. By the end of the campaign, they would no longer shine, they would be coated in blood and grime, weapons chipped and armour dented, but the discipline, the heart and soul of imperial armies, that would still come through amongst the missing limbs and broken swords. "Karl Franz!" They called out to him across the city and the call washed over him like a warm bath. These men would follow him into the darkness and it would be his pleasure to lead them back again.

"These gentlemen would be at battle," he commented to Helborg.

His friend smiled. "They certainly would."

"Let us not keep them long. Tomorrow we march south, link up with our other regiments and move to Sylvania."

"As you command, my Emperor."

It was not to be.

Franz was woken in the early hours of the next day, the sun hadn't even begun to creep over the horizon when Arne gently opened the door. "What is it?" He asked. If it wasn't important he wouldn't have been woken so early, not when he had an army to command.

"A messenger has arrived, my Emperor."

"Sylvania?" He asked, alert in an instant. Had the barrier been broken, had Gelt's protection failed?

Arne shook his head. "From Kislev, a message from the Tzarina herself."

He swung himself out of bed. What did the Tzarina want with him, and why was it so important as to wake him so early on the eve of a major campaign?

Arne led him out to his solar where a bedraggled rider from Kislev was waiting for him. The winged helm was dented and missing one of the wings, the breastplate had a hole in the right side from some kind of thrusting weapon, his spurs were covered in blood from the flanks of his horse. "Your majesty," the rider bowed low, his voice laced with a thick Kislevite accent, this was no ambassador, this was a rider, whatever message he had to deliver, the Tzarina wanted it delivered quickly rather than properly.

"You have a message from Lady Katarin?"

He nodded. That he didn't bother to correct Franz's term of address told him that the situation was dire. "Kislev is lost."

He blinked. "What?"

"The Kingdom of Kislev is aflame," the rider replied, sorrow woven into every syllable. "Forces of Chaos have descended upon us in their hundreds of thousands, maybe more. The north is awash with death, the servants of the Dark Gods bathing it in an orgy of blood and fire. The Tzarina was going to hold them against the northern fortresses, but then the Norscans came from the sea, Bolgasgrad is lost. Boyar Sergei Laskos tried to reinforce the Bastion of the North, but Praag fell in but a single day. Nothing remains but slaves, ash and the dead."

Franz had to sit down. He had seen Praag, a more fortified place he hadn't ever seen. Lost in a day. What was this?

"Then we learned the name of the commander. This was not some large raiding force. The name driving them on was not that of one of the Dark Gods, it is Everchosen."

His breath hitched. Everchosen. The name of the champion of the Chaos Gods, the one who could unify their armies under one banner, who brought devastation to the Empire whenever they came. Morkar, the first of them had been slain by Sigmar himself. Magnus the Pious led the Empire against Asavar Kul. Was he destined to lead the Empire against another? Franz knew how to politick, and this rider's fear, distress, sorrow and sadness were all real. He was not lying.

He thrust his emotions aside, he had to evaluate everything. "Arne, bring me Gelt." The Supreme Patriarch had returned to Altdorf but days ago. He turned back to the Kislevite as Arne left in a hurry. "I assume that the Tzarina has sent you to invoke the terms of our alliance pact, for the armies of the Empire to come to your aid?"

To his surprise, the rider shook his head. "She did not send me for her salvation, nor that of her lands or people. She and the remnants of Kislev's armies hold along the River Lysk so that you and the Empire may have a chance to avoid the same fate that has befallen Kislev."

Franz cursed. If the situation was that dire, then it represented a greater threat than von Carstein. Weeks ago all had been well, then von Carstein had returned, now Volkmar was lost, the Crown of Nagash was in the hands of a powerful vampire, the realms to the south had been destroyed, Kislev was lost and another army descended on his northern border. How had the world changed so quickly? He had to be calm, he had to think. If all this was true, then he would have to rethink, he no longer had the resources to deal with them all at once. What was happening in Tilea and Estalia could wait, but the north couldn't and Sylvania remained an unknown entity. The Crown of Nagash had been devastating on the brow of an ork Warboss, on the head of a cunning and powerful vampire, he shuddered to think of the damage it could inflict.

He didn't say anything, not yet, not until Gelt swept into the room. He had often wondered if Gelt ever changed his clothes, for he was still in the same gold and purple cloth as always, his shimmering cloak flowing from his shoulders, his mask cold and stern and his staff held fast in his hand. "You summoned me?"

He nodded. "I did, rider," he turned back to the Kislevite, "tell the Supreme Patriarch what you told me."

The rider repeated his message and Gelt stood silent throughout it all. "This is... troubling," he said. "What do you intend to do?"

"That's why I called you," Franz said. "The barrier around Sylvania, will it hold?"

"It is strong," Gelt said. "And will hold for now, but if von Carstein masters the crown, I can make no promises."

"Can he master it?" He asked.

Gelt was frozen in thought like a golden statue. "It's possible. I would be careful about judging the power of von Carstein, he is powerful and arrogant, but not a fool. He wasn't wearing it to battle Volkmar, and I doubt he will don it until he is certain that he rules it rather than the other way around."

So he had time. But if the followers of the dark gods had truly overrun Kislev easily, then this was a matter that he had to see to at once. "Then we must act quickly. Prepare the Brass Sentinels, I'll have someone wake Kurt. We must redirect the army north to counter the coming threat."

Gelt bowed his head. "Very well. I'll despatch several wizards, including the Patriarch of the Light College to reinforce the barrier around Sylvania for as long as possible."

That night the messages were sent. The Brass Sentinels sent word to the cities and messengers were despatched in their hundreds to reroute armies to the northern border to face the oncoming threat.

The very next day, Franz was regretting that decision.

"Nagash?" He groaned. "Mannfred von Carstein seeks to restore Nagash?"

The tall and imposing High Elf, his white robes flowing elegantly, around his neck the twin symbols of Everqueen and Phoenix King, did not move as he replied. "I can't speak for the Vampire, but our King died to learn that Arkhan the Black was doing so, and he has taken the Everchild to Sylvania. If you are right and Mannfred von Carstein stole the crown, then I think it is likely that he is also working to that end." Franz ground his teeth to hold back his response. Of course they were right, bloody High Elves. He remembered this wizard, Belannaer, he had come to the Empire with King Finubar, but the King had been respectful, this one was clearly struggling to hold back his contempt.

"Gelt, you contained Sylvania, yes?" He asked. "Could this Arkhan have slipped in?"

"He was powerful, the weapon he wielded damaged the king's very soul. Human magic will likely not be enough to stop him," Belannaer responded before Gelt could. He hadn't meant his disrespect to show, but this Elf, clearly magically skilled, simply didn't believe that human magic was worth it. But he had made a mistake in criticising Gelt's skills. Franz heard Gelt tap the Staff of Volans on the ground gently before he gave his reply, his voice the same as normal. "I do not doubt that my barrier will be unable to stop the likes of Nagash if he were to return, Loremaster. But if Arkhan the Black got in, he slipped in before the barrier was formed, not after."

Franz saw that the Elf was uncomfortable, then saw why, the gold choker around his neck had tightened, the Elf's veins popping out and eyes starting to water a little, but he wouldn't admit that he was being hurt by this magic. Normally Franz wouldn't allow a dignitary to be disrespected this way, but he decided on this occasion to let Gelt carry on a little. The elf took a quick and quiet breath as Gelt released his magical hold on the metal around his judge's neck.

He continued as though there had been no minor magical duel in his presence. "I redirected my armies north yesterday, the armies of Chaos are descending on us and I must see to them. I cannot spend my strength to rescue your Everchild, not even to stop the return of Nagash. I don't have that power."

"You need not do so alone," Belannaer said. "Prince Tyrion, the greatest hero of our time is coming with a host of the Asur at his back, allow him passage through the Empire and he will lead the charge into Sylvania."

"I cannot just allow an army to pass through my lands, and I can no more afford the men to escort you than I could join you," Franz replied. He got up and walked around his table. The world was changing, to have such threats come so thick and fast. "These rising powers threaten more than the Empire, the world must gather to meet them." In truth, Franz had been planning to do this for some time, but now he had a chance to include the High Elves in it, and possibly more. "I am calling a council. Here in Altdorf, as quickly as possible. Send out the messages to everyone, all our allies and all who might be called upon to stand against the coming darkness. Your Prince Tyrion will be there," he assured Belannaer, "but he will not be alone, the world will come together to meet these threats. And so once again, messages were sent out of Altdorf to the allies of the Empire.

In the vaulted halls of Karaz-a-Karak, Thorgrim Grudgebearer received the Empire's summons and called for a throng to be gathered. In the tournament fields of Courone, Louen Leoncouer, the Royarch of Bretonnia, summoned his knights and dukes to come to his banner. Prince Tyrion's host disembarked at the Free City of Marienburg and made their way at great speed to Altdorf. Elsewhere, the Emperor's summons fell on deaf ears. The arrows of the Wood Elves never left the Empire's messengers as they delivered the Emperor's call to the council, who gathered, talked, debated, and decided to do nothing. The messages to the refugees from Tilea and Estalia fell on deaf ears as the last commanders of those sellsword peoples tried to defend their own and organise the exodus. Those of the petty border princes that heard the call to arms disregarded it in favour of keeping forces to deal with their rivals, and the Skaven that had remained since the destruction of Clan Mordkin, as well as additional warbands that were starting to cross from the ruins of Tilea. What allies that Franz could find made their way to Altdorf to determine what to do in the face of the encroaching threats. He prayed to Sigmar that it would be enough.


	9. 1-9

One army had left Altdorf, but several more had converged on it and even the mighty imperial capital was struggling under the strain.

Prince Tyrion looked on Altdorf with barely disguised jealousy. His experience of cities had been in Ulthuan, where mansions lay empty and unoccupied for want of Asur to live there, where the walls, though tall, were beginning to weather without men to occupy or maintain them. But here, the walls barely contained the massive population, which spilled out like lave from Vaul's Anvil, with villages stretching along the rivers for fishing and manors for the rich men of the city to escape the claustrophobic quarters of the city itself. Finubar had been impressed with the humans, and Tyrion reluctantly saw why. "Don't worry, Tyrion," his brother said softly from beside him as they looked over the city. The Asur had made their camp a short distance away, so they wouldn't get swept up in the morass of humans. "Aliathra will be recovered."

Tyrion nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Teclis, his frail brother was one of few who knew the truth of Aliathra, but the rest of this host didn't and he needed them to follow him loyally. It was not the most powerful army he had ever led, but with limited time to gather it, he would have to make do. He clenched his fists, he would tear his way through Sylvania single handed if that was what it took to recover Aliathra, but Teclis and Belannaer insisted that they at least try to get help from this Empire of men. "I know," he replied. "But every day we wait is another day that my- that the Everchild is in danger, and she must be recovered before any harm comes to her."

"Too much haste is too little speed, brother," Teclis reminded him as a patrol of White Lions moved behind them. Most of that regiment remained on Ulthuan to await the coronation of the next king, but Finubar had ordered Korhil to provide some men to assist Tyrion. "Besides, we may not be waiting too much longer, look."

Teclis pointed to the west, to the road from Marienburg that his host had entered by to see an armoured caterpillar snaking its way down the road. A large force of knights in glinting armour, flying banners with holy cups, blessed lances and sword-wielding lions was coming down, shadowed at all times by a host of Pegasus riders. The Knights of Bretonnia had come.

Louen had wasted no time when Franz's messenger had come. Bretonnia knew well the dangers imposed by the forces of the Undead and by the agents of the Dark Gods, in the name of the lady, they would stand by their allies to defend the world. He had given orders at home that most of the Dukes ready their knights and call up the peasants to arms, before taking the knights of Courone, his home Duchy, to go to Franz's great council. The Empire and Bretonnia may well be neighbouring human realms, but they were not ready allies in all things, and whenever they met, it was always with a display of strength behind them. But not all Dukes remained behind. Knowing that the undead were to be discussed, Louen had ordered that Duke Tancred d'Quenelles, the champion who had defeated Heinrich Kemmler, the Lichemeister, at the Battle of La Maisontaal, to accompany him with a column of knights.

Louen looked down on his knights from the back of Beaquis, his faithful Hippogriff, and smiled at the sight of so much knightly chivalry approaching the Empire. In whatever battles were to come, his knights would distinguish themselves – they would purge evil from the world in the Lady's blessed name. "A fine sight, Duke Tancred!" He called out to the Duke, riding his Pegasus next to him.

"Indeed sire!" Tancred replied. "But it seems our speed was surpassed by another." He gestured and Louen turned his head, eyes widening in surprise. Elves? Here? The white clad host was gathered not far from the city. Louen had expected Dwarfs, but Elves as well? The situation must be truly dire for them to bestir themselves.

As they got closer to the city they descended, the column of knights turning out, peeling apart like an envelope, folding around both sides of the road and lining, only the very best would be accompanying the two of them into the city.

Beaquis folded his wings when they got close to the city and they fell into a dive. He could sense his Pegasus riders falling in behind him, Duke Tancred as well. The wind rushed through his hair as Beaquis opened his full wingspan and they glided over the walls, his steed's claws passing inches above the helmets of the city watchmen before they rose again. Even up here, he heard the cries of wonder from the people in the courtyard below. Not surprising, the Empire had griffins in the Imperial zoo and Pegasi, but so rarely seen outside. Such noble beasts shouldn't be caged, they should be in battle.

They swept over the city heading for the imperial palace. "Rise, rise!" He cried as they got close and they did so, spiralling up and up around the tallest spires before diving towards the courtyard. Four great squares of halberdiers filled the square, a thin line held back the crowds but most stood at parade rest before their Emperor and Reiksmarshall, who stood before them on the steps leading into the palace. They'd left an open area for him and his men to land in and Louen and his knights descended, landing on the cobbles with a clatter of claws and hooves. Beaquis gave out a great roar before settling down and allowing Louen to dismount.

"Emperor Franz," he bowed in civil greeting.

"King Leoncouer," Franz replied, inclining his head. "I'm glad you could make it. We have much to discuss, both the Empire and Bretonnia stand at risk."

Louen nodded. "Indeed, the urgency and contents of your missive told me as such. I notice the Elves are outside the city, are we ready to begin?"

"Not yet," Franz replied. "High King Thorgrim should be here shortly, we'll await his arrival, then we can start."

A dwarf throng on the march was an implacable beast, unhindered by weather, terrain or foe, and through this they could nearly match the speed of the long legged manlings.

This was not the largest throng Thorgrim had led, he had left most of his armies at Karaz-a-Karak, but it was more than enough to make an impression. He had to admit, that Franz's message came at an ill-opportune time. Reports were coming in of an increase in activity. The silence of the underdark had ended, greenskin and ratmen incursions had started up and other holds were reporting that they were under assault. Now the elven king who had tried to open relations was dead, his daughter and intended diplomat was taken by the Uzkular and the armies of chaos were now approaching their allies. Honour demanded that the Dawi act.

The march overland had been long. He's seen the magical barrier erected around the land of undeath and met imperial armies marching north to confront the new threat, but eventually Thorgrim and his throng arrived at the Imperial capital.

"Franz!" He greeted the Emperor just outside the city, where he had come with an honour guard to greet him.

"High King!" Franz replied with a smile on his face. "It is an honour, to host our grandest allies from the mountains."

"The men of the Empire have long been friends to the Dawi, and we repay that friendship." His thronebearers lowered his throne and he got off it stamping up to the Emperor, clapping his gauntleted hands together. "Are we to begin then, I'm eager to start."

Franz nodded. "We are, with your arrival we are all gathered and this council can begin."

The Council gathered in the throne room of the Empire. A grand circular table was set out with four sets of three seats for the different parties. Franz had gone to great length to make sure that the chairs were suited to the bearers, smaller for the Dwarfs and taller for the elves. He himself sat before his throne, not on it, now was not the time for dominance, besides, he had set out the seats, already this room was his more than any other. At his right hand side was Kurt Helborg, and the chair to his left, currently vacant, was to be occupied by Balthasar Gelt, when he arrived. Opposite him was Louen Leoncouer, who was joined by Duke Tancred and a fair damsel of Bretonnia, who's beauty struck Franz deeply, and even the Elves took notice of her flowing blonde hair and bright blue eyes. But Franz knew that if Louen had brought her she was more than beautiful, the damsels of Bretonnia were skilled in the magical arts, as well as the spokespeople for the Bretonnian goddess, the Lady of the Lake. It would not do to underestimate her. Thorgrim had decided to set his throne aside and take the seat that Franz had put for him. He kept a careful eye on their blasted Great Book of Grudges, if he had slighted Thorgrim, it may well be noted and revenge taken later on. To Thorgrim's right was another dwarfen warrior, with a long beard, grey and braided, and to his left was a more youthful dwarf, a scribe, who was to record the meeting for dwarfen memories. The High Elves sat down smartly, Prince Tyrion, the strong warrior, was sat in the middle, his sword resting on the table before them, while his brother Prince Teclis and the Elven emissary Belannaer took the seats either side of them. All three had armed detachments behind them. Louen had brought a dozen Grail Knights with him, knights that Franz knew outmatched any that came from the Empire, even his Reiksguard. Thorgrim's guard consisted of his Hammerers, clutching their heavy weapons tightly, ready for anything, while the Elven defenders were more of a mix of warriors, some with great axes, others with spears and swords and bows. Franz's Reiksguard stood behind him, ready to intervene if things got out of hand. "Are we ready to begin?" Asked the impatient Prince Tyrion. Helborg's hand shifted ever so slightly towards his sword, an action not missed by any around the table, and Franz placated him with a touch to the arm.

"We only await my last advisor, he will be here shortly," he said.

Sure enough, Balthasar entered the room shortly, circling the table without the slightest glance at the others before taking his seat. "I apologise for my lateness, there were matters I had to attend to."

Franz nodded and turned back to the table. "Now, let us begin."

Before Franz could begin, Prince Tyrion of the High Elves spoke up. "The Everchild, and future Everqueen has been taken by the undead, to be used in a foul ritual to restore the Great Necromancer Nagash to this world. She must be recovered and the plot foiled. All other matters can wait."

"Respectfully, Prince Tyrion, they cannot," Franz replied. "Kislev has already fallen, and Chaos moves on the northern border, to allow them to cross unchallenged is unacceptable."

Tyrion's knuckles whitened as he balled his hands into fists. "Your attention can be turned to these marauders once the undead are dealt with."

"Be careful Elgi," Thorgrim spoke up. "You shouldn't tell the Emperor what to do with his own realm, I wouldn't allow you to demand I open the gates of the Everpeak to the enemy in order to scourge something beneath her halls."

"Well maybe, dwarf, if the Emperor had dealt with the boil on the back of his Empire already, we could turn all our attention to-"

"We are not here to discuss what should have been done, only what must be. But I agree with High King Thorgrim," Louen said, his voice calming across the table. "We cannot ignore Chaos to deal with the undead. Both threats are upon us and both must be faced."

Tyrion turned his anger on King Louen but his brother took his arm. "Anger won't help us here, Tyrion, nor will it help the Everchild." He turned to Louen. "What do you propose, King Louen?"

The king steepled his fingers with regal grace on the hard mahogany surface. "I imagine that Franz sent out his call because he doesn't have the strength alone to meet these threats, but here we are together, and together, we do. We have enough strength to hold Chaos while we crush Sylvania, then turn our full might north to dispense with this Everchosen."

"I won't be able to bring all the strength of the Dawi," Thorgrim said, sitting back, his expression dark and brooding. "Our holds are under threat again, and I must leave strength to see to their defence, and I will struggle to bring all the realms of the Karaz Ankor to bear, the Kings will have to see to their own defences as well. I can count on King Ungrim, King Alrik and some others, but there are those who will look to the Dawi first and the world after."

"You are their High King, command them otherwise," Tyrion scoffed at the weak power of the so called High King. Why did Finubar think his daughter a worthy emissary to these stump legs?

Thorgrim fixed him with a stern eye. "Says the warrior here to recover his Everchild, not face the agents of Chaos in battle."

"The Asur recognise the danger of Chaos," Prince Teclis declared. "I agree with King Louen's plan. If my brother leads the expedition we've assembled to Sylvania, I will accompany the armies to the north to face the invasion of Chaos."

Franz felt his heart lift at that. Prince Teclis had been instrumental in defeating the previous invasion of Chaos and, at Magnus the Pious' wish, had remained to establish the Colleges of Magic within the Empire. With him at their side, their chances of victory were greater.

A commotion outside made them all look to the door. "What's going on?" Franz demanded, getting up and resting his fists on the table. The Reiksguard at the door opened it to reveal a bedraggled Bretonnian knight standing before them, his blue and yellow tabard bearing the Trident of Bordeleaux.

"Forgive me, sire," he said, panting heavily, his eyes fixed solely on Louen. "I came as fast as I could." He rushed over and, without any of the usual Bretonnian pomp, completely ignoring the rest of the room, handed the king of Bretonnia a missive to the king.

Louen slit open the scroll and unfurled it. His eyes widened in shock, horror and anger as they traced their way over the paper. He turned to the knight. "Is this true?"

The knight nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid so, sire, Duke Alberic is attempting to contain the enemy as they pour south, but Lyonesse has already been overrun Duke Adalhard was slainand his knights have scattered, seeing to their own defences, Artois is under threat and yet more foes continue to emerge from Mousillon itself."

Louen cursed and got to his feet. "At this time, Mousillon rises up now, Lady damn them all, this must be answered!"

"Louen, what is happening?" Franz asked.

King Louen turned to them as though he had only just remembered that they were there. "I must apologise, Franz," he said, bowing his head solemnly. "It seems I have troubles of my own to attend to. The accursed remnants of Mousillon have risen up again, and have declared rebellion, they bring dark powers to fight alongside them, the followers of Chaos."

Franz bit back his retort. Mousillon was Bretonnia's Sylvania, a vampire Duke had risen up there in ages past and been defeated. Most of Mousillon had been taken on by the rest of Bretonnia, but the heart of the Duchy remained vacant, for no sane man would want to rule it. He couldn't well reprimand Louen for leaving it as a festering pit and at the same time ask him to help with Sylvania. It seemed that they'd both been lax in their duties, to their detriment. A chaotic uprising in Bretonnia just as a new Everchosen lay waste to Kislev, and an undead rising in Sylvania looking to restore the great Necromancer. So many threats to counter, all at once, they would be stretched to their very limits.

"Fear not, Franz," Louen said, with a grim determination etched across his face. "I will hold to my word, these other threats must be faced. Duke Tancred," he gestured to the Duke, who looked up at his king, "will remain. His forces will accompany whatever you send against Sylvania. You will find his experience invaluable. I will deal with this rebellion and then the knights of Bretonnia will assist you in the wars to come."

Prince Teclis spoke up next. "You have one force going to Sylvania, my brother will lead another, both bring power and strength."

"Be wary of overconfidence," Gelt warned the council. "Mannfred has gathered many vampires to his side, and Arkhan the Black has power all on his own."

"But actions must be taken," Franz told Gelt. "King Louen is right, action must be taken while we have the strength to do so." It seemed that another threat could arise at any point to sap their strength once more. They had to strike while bleeding or bleed out before they could. "You say there was strength left in Volkmar's Crusade?"

Gelt nodded. "Indeed, Hans Leitdorf still commands a strong force, though it is battle worn."

"They are men of the Empire, and Hans is an experienced knight. They will join the expedition into Sylvania."

"Then it sounds like armies are gathering," Thorgrim declared, seemingly eager. "I did not bring my full strength, but what I have brought will join you in holding your northern border, Franz."

Franz nodded. "Knights, Elves, and imperial armies march on Sylvania, while dwarves and the Empire's hard strength march on the north. You will have to cut your way across most of Sylvania to reach Drakenhoff," he said to Prince Tyrion."

"I'll cut my way across half the world if that's what it takes," the warrior prince declared.

"Mannfred will mass his men to stop you, it will not be easy, he will make you fight for every inch."

"Then we divide and conquer," Thorgrim declared, slamming a fist on the table. "There is more than one Dawi hold left in this world. Long has the Slayer King, Ungrim Ironfist, watched over Sylvania's east. I will send word to him. As the combined army attacks from the west, the throng of Karak Kadrin will attack from the east."

"I thought you said it would be difficult to rouse the other Dwarf Kings?" Belannaer commented.

Thorgrim nodded. "I did, but Ungrim is not like the rest. He is a slayer, the biting axe blade of the Dawi, he will answer when called to war."

"Dwarfs from Karak Kadrin as well, together it should be enough to break through Sylvania," Franz said. "And with the armies gathering in the north to repel Chaos the crises may yet be averted."

"Are we settled?" Prince Tyrion demanded, getting to his feet. "The Everchild cannot wait much longer."

"We are," Franz said.

"Actually," Gelt said, cutting across them all like a sharp knife. "We aren't. Not yet."

"What is it?" Teclis asked.

Gelt got to his feet. "The magical barrier around Sylvania is still in place, in order for the army to invade, I'll need to lower it."

Everyone looked to each other. "So lower it," said Helborg, speaking for the first time. "What's the concern?"

"I will, but I need something else in return."

Franz ground his teeth in frustration. Gelt was powerful, knowledgeable and a worthy advisor to him, but he was still a wizard at heart, and his drive to increase his own knowledge and collect arcane artefacts was at times as frustrating as it was constant, and with the High Elves present...

"What?" asked Teclis tentatively.

Gelt turned his masked head towards the Arch Mage. "I need the Scroll of Hoeth."

A collective breath came from the High Elf escort, Teclis' eyes widened in alarm and Tyrion scoffed in indignation. "The Scroll of Hoeth is mine to bear," Teclis replied curtly, a hint of steel in his voice, "I cannot turn it over to you."

"I do not seek it for my own selfish studies," Gelt replied, "not at this hour of darkness. I ask because I also seek to hold back Chaos, to prevent it bringing ruin to my home. I do not seek to keep it, I only need to peruse it's contents. I will return it shortly."

"I cannot-"

"Brother!" Tyrion cut across Teclis. "The Everchild needs to be recovered. He swears he will return the scroll. Is that not enough?" He leant down and whispered in his brother's ear so that only he may hear. "You have said, as Finubar often did, that humans are the bulwark against Chaos, it's why you taught them magic in the first place. Why does this irk you so?"

"There are some things that humans are not ready to learn," Teclis replied. He looked up into Tyrion's eyes and sighed in resignation. "But Aliathra is my niece as well. Very well," he said to the table, taking the strong cylinder that contained the scroll from his belt. "You may read the scroll, Supreme Patriarch, but you will not copy it's contents."

"That will not be necessary. When I join you on the northern war front, I will return it, unblemished." He took a scroll from his own belt and slid it across the table. "This contains the spell to end the barrier. Make sure that you end the threat, or there will be nothing to contain it."

"Have no fear in that regard," Tyrion replied. "Those who dared bring harm to the Everchild will not see the turn of the year."

An awkward pause hung over the table like a thick frost until High King Thorgrim spoke. "Well then. Now that last matter is settled, let us all of us make ready for war."

There was no clamour of cheers and celebration from any of the warriors or delegates, they knew that the wars to come were not to be fought for glory, honour or riches, but for survival, that their people might live, they may not necessarily see a better tomorrow, but they would at least see another one.


	10. 1-10

_Karak Kadrin_

Ungrim had been beyond pleased to receive the call to arms from High King Thorgrim. Marching out against the foes of the Dawi and striking them down, this was what he lived for. He would either fulfil his oath as King and destroy a major threat to his people in the Uzkular, or he would find a glorious death in battle and fulfil his Slayer Oath. But the Dawi holds had always had their share of stubborn and blind fools, those who would rather bar themselves away from the world and cradle what relics of the ancestors still remained to them. In his times of deepest fury he wondered if they still remembered what it meant to be a dwarf. Every time the Dwarfs holed up in their strongholds, they lost a little more of their empire. No more. Ungrim had long been convinced, as had Thorgrim, Belegar, Alric and a few others, that the Dwarfs should march out, face their foes head on and remind the world that had forgotten that the Dwarfs had once been the dominant power, and that they still had a place in it.

His thanes were almost cowed by his rage. The asked why an elven princess or a small human backwater should be worth their intervention, remembering the War of Vengeance and the losses the Dawi had suffered against the Uzkular before. Ungrim would have none of it. "Our High King, the leader of the Dawi, and the humans, our oldest ally whom we are honour bound to assist, have requested our assistance against the Uzkular!" He roared, a few Thanes met his gaze, but most averted their eyes. "We will _not_ cower in our mountain hold and wait for the enemy to come to us. Here, in Karak Kadrin, we are the heirs of Grimnir, the followers of the warrior ancestor himself. As he did when the hordes of daemons spilled into the world the first time, we shall march out and face our enemies in battle." The slayers in the hall raised their axes in a shout of approval, their orange crests quivering. Ungrim raised the axe of Dargo above his head. "As the King of Karak Kadrin, in the name of High King Thorgrim and the memory of Grimnir, I declare that we will march to war. Ready your clans, have your axes sharpened and your shields readied. Prepare the cannons and organ guns, the grudge throwers and the gyrocopters. Recount your oaths of vengeance against the fell Uzkular of Sylvania, for we march against them. To war!"

Many of his thanes may have objected, but with war decided upon, they shouted in support. They may not be slayers, but in the heart of every Dwarf of Karak Kadrin was the desire for battle and vengeance.

The dwarfs were always ready for war, their empire constantly under siege from grobi, urks and thaggoraki, so it took less than three days for a mighty throng to be gathered. When the surface gates of Karak Kadrin swung open with a heavy crash that shook the mountains, Ungrim's throng marched forth, gleaming as the crisp early winter sun glanced off their gromril and good dawi steel. Each clan marched beneath their banner, large formations of axe wielding warriors marched in lockstep down from the mountains, behind them came the quarrellers and thunderers, their crossbows held at the ready. Longbeards, heavy axes in hand marched alongside gromril clad ironbreakers and irondrakes under the shadow of gyrocopters; shadowing them on the cliffs of the mountain passes were rangers, keeping an eye out for ambushing grobi scum. At the rear, protected by yet more warriors, came the artillery train. The foundries had opened and out came a mustering of dawi war engines, canons, grudge throwers, organ guns and flame cannons, with several bolt throwers as well, accompanied by their engineers. Thanes and runesmiths accompanied the army, the thanes adding their skills and veteran experience to the war, while the runesmiths were ready to counter the fell magics of the undead that they were certain to encounter. At the front of the large column was Ungrim Ironfist, his dragon cloak shimmering, the axe of Dargo held in his hand, ready to deal death to the first enemies of the dawi they encountered. Most kings would be accompanied by their regiments of hammerers, but not Ungrim, the pride of his army were his slayers, an orange crested vanguard burning a path down the slopes for the Dawi throng to follow. The Uzkular had a tendency to bring great beasts to serve them in battle, and many hoped to fulfil their oaths in the war to come. Ungrim wondered if perhaps, he would as well.

 _Heldenhame Keep_

The second army gathered at Heldenhame this year was far more diverse than the first, Hans noted. The surprise he had felt when the army of elves came to Heldenhame, led by a prince, a warrior and a mage was only matched by how infuriating they could be, stubborn, aloof and arrogant by half. When a Bretonnian Duke was the voice of reason and mediation at a negotiating table something was wrong with the world, but Duke Tancred was going between elf and imperial, trying to breed a spirit of co-operation between them. Hans wanted to try, but these elves were insufferable. He'd been on this border for decades, he knew this land, they had only been here for a few days and were trying to direct them. "As I have said, the defences on the southern approach were weakened by our first invasion, but the more northern route past Fort Oberstyre is the safer option. If we go down the southern route, we could smash through but be surrounded by fresh undead forces from the north."

"Your planned invasion, human, would take us through several fortresses and choke points," said the warrior, a female elf, tall and lithe, and clearly an attendant to the prince. She glanced down at the map. Not just Oberstyre, but also Sterneiste, Templehof, Konigstein and Eschen, all formidable."

"And all rally points that von Carstein could pull back to and retake the province. To catch a rat you need to trap it, cut off all means of escape, but as long as there is a fortress in Sylvania, there is a refuge."

"We are not here to pacify your province for you, human," the prince spoke. He was the leader of the expedition and commanded the deep respect of the rest of them. "We are here to rescue the Everchild and prevent the return of Nagash."

Hans wanted to growl in frustration, but Tancred stepped in again. "Perhaps, but disguising our approach would only help, and remember, many of the vampires are the old nobility of Sylvania, by threatening their lands, we could split them from von Carstein, making the final assault easier."

"This von Carstein has more strength to spare than we do," the mage said. "There are corpses all over Sylvania and to divide our forces now would invite them to be attacked piecemeal."

"Oberstyre at least remains a threat." Oberstyre was a formidable fortress, haunted by the spectres of its long dead garrisons. Every attempt to exorcise them had failed and so, the fortress build at great expense to watch over Sylvania after the defeat of Vlad von Carstein was now an enemy strongpoint on the borders of Stirland. "When was the last time any of you elves fought the undead?" Hans looked at the elves, they were too proud to say it, but it had clearly been some time, even for them. "You do not enter battle with the likes of von Carstein without prior experience. Oberstyre has been vacated of its Blood Dragon garrison, it is still formidable, but significantly weakened.

Tancred nodded. "A quick assault then. Reduce Oberstyre to unholy ash and cinder and some of the vampires may skitter back to their individual piles to defend what they see as theirs, while we then progress to Drakenhof from the weakened south."

Hans didn't like it. He had hoped that this would be a hammer blow to shatter the corrupted realm of Sylvania once and for all. Instead they were going in as a scalpel, cutting out a little of the rot. Then the elves would leave and he would likely be forced to retreat due to lack of numbers and strength. Then, in a hundred years or more, another would rise and the next vampire war would begin. But Hans was a soldier, and he knew what was at stake. If Nagash was to be raised again, then there wouldn't be an empire in ten years, let alone a hundred. He wouldn't let his stubbornness get in the way of preventing it, and if it was a choice between Nagash and Sylvania, he knew which had to be eradicated.

He glanced at the other elf at the table, this one was different, garbed in green and silver, with no allegiance to Ulthuan, but instead coming from Athel Loren. He and a small host of his kin had appeared suddenly the day before, shocking his army with their subtlety. He rarely spoke, this Araloth, having had only a few words for Prince Tyrion and holding mainly to his own counsel. Perhaps feeling Hans' eyes upon him, he spoke up in his soft voice. "My host will not be helping you claim fortresses, human. By necessity we chose speed over strength, we will move quickly through the world roots towards Drakenhof and meet you there, we must conserve our strength."

With all stacked against him but Tancred, who was not an ally, Hans relented. "Then I concur with Duke Tancred's plan, a sudden strike against Oberstyre and a thrust through the south."

"I will not strike at Oberstyre," Prince Tyrion declared. "I will begin carving a path through the south of Sylvania. Belannaer, you will accompany the humans to Oberstyre. Do not tarry, destroy it utterly and all fell spirits within, then make haste to catch up to us."

Belannaer nodded.

"If it is decided, then we move, let us lower the barrier and begin the invasion." The warrior woman Eldyra replied.

"We begin ahead," declared Araloth. "The barrier does not hold us back in the world roots. Fare well, may we meet again outside Drakenhof." Without waiting for a reply, the wood elf slipped from the room as mysteriously as he and his followers had come.

Hans followed them, wondering what had brought these other elves to a campaign to retrieve the princess of another?

 _Two weeks previously – The King's Glade, Athel Loren_

The King in the Wood was dying. Winter was coming and soon it would be time for Orion to rejoin his beloved in the Oak of Ages, but for now, the wood elves still held to the commandments and counsel of the King of the Wild Hunt. His powerful body was starting to sag, though it never truly deteriorated but his gaze was still filled with the wild fury of Kurnos, god of the hunt, and all of it was directed at the visitor who stood humbly before the council. "Speak, Everqueen of Ulthuan!" His tone was dark, deep and dangerous. "Why have you come to this sacred glade?"

Araloth looked at the Everqueen. Bound in vines as was the custom, he was enamoured by her beauty, it radiated off her in a shimmering glow that made him both want to stare and avert his eyes. An Everqueen, come to them, humble and penitent, begging for help – Araloth would never have guessed such an event would ever happen.

But Alarielle, though humble, was not cowed by Orion's stare. "I come to ask for your assistance," she replied meekly. "God-King of Athel Loren, I need your help." The council whispered to each other, some to King Orion, but also to each other. Orion waved his hand for her to continue. "My daughter, the Everchild, she has been taken by the undead, I request your help in rescuing her."

The forest itself shuddered at the mention of the undead. It had suffered under the undead hosts of Heinrich Kemmler before, it knew that undeath was a curse to be avoided and crushed. He cast his eye over Orion. Even at the later stage of his life, Araloth saw his muscles spasm with eagerness to take up his spear, sound his horn and call the Wild Hunt together and find solace in the chaos of battle. "Why should we help with this?" asked one of the council. "She is _your_ Everchild. Our Queen is Ariel, why should the Asrai risk themselves to help your daughter, Asur?"

Alarielle sunk to her knees, her dress spilling out around her like a pool of water. "You know who I am. You know what I can do. I know that I can offer you something that you want. Whatever price you ask of me I will gladly pay, I will pay it a hundred times and more in return for my daughter's life. She is precious. Not just to me, but her blood, her life, it means more than the sentimental value a mother puts on it. The foe who would be reborn if Aliathra is sacrificed would make the man who brought undeath to the forest before seem a child with a needle. Athel Loren is the heart of life, and the Great Necromancer detests life." More murmurs swept around the council, but Orion was silent. Araloth doubted that he'd been listening for the whole time anyway.

Then a cracking rent the air and all eyes turned to the figure behind Orion. Durthu. The ancient treeman rarely spoke, rarely made any indication that he was at all present in these meetings. But when he did, all knew to listen. _"The cycle of the world changes as the forest does from autumn to spring. We know the danger of which you speak. The forest will aid the children of Ulthuan, but as before, you will pay the price you have already accepted."_ Alarielle nodded. Most still stared at Durthu. Durthu speaking was in and of itself, rare, but to speak calmly, rationally, even more so. Normally he was a conduit for the rage of the forest, speaking of war and death and destruction.

Orion did not challenge Durthu, for which Araloth was pleased. The peace between Asrai and the forest was always fraught with tension, and for the eldest treeman and the god king to be brought to battle would be disastrous. If the forest chose to rise against them, they would die, how do you fight back when your own home came to kill you? Instead, he nodded. "I would relish the chance to bring battle to the undead. But my time has nearly come. Another shall lead the Asrai in my place. Araloth." He stepped forwards. "You heard all?"

He nodded. "I did."

"Then you will go to Sylvania, and aid the Asur in recovering the Everchild." Araloth nodded, already mapping out his route along the world roots to get there. He would have to take a small host, too large would take too long, and it seemed that Ulthuan was sending not a small amount of power themselves. The vines fell from Alarielle as the council dispersed, Orion to lose himself in battle lust again and the rest to their duties. Arahan and Naestra, the handmaidens of the Mage Queen Ariel slipped behind Alarielle, it seemed whatever price was to be paid, at least some of it was to be paid at once. But the Everqueen came to him first. "I will do all in my power to recover your daughter," he promised her.

She nodded. He could hear the sorrow and desperation in her voice. "I know. Thank you. You can meet Tyrion at-"

He cut her off by taking her hand gently. "Do not trouble yourself. The Asrai will find your fellow forces on Sylvania's border without trouble, and your daughter."

 _Castle Drakenhof_

If the Empire was hoping to hide their second invasion, they were fools. Mannfred had felt it the second that the barrier had fallen from around his realm. Mortals were many things, but not all of them were fools, and three of them he could count on not being fools were the Emperor, Hans Leitdorf and Balthazar Gelt. There hadn't been the time to gather the armies from around the Empire, so they were attacking early. The only conclusion he could draw was that the Empire had discovered their purpose and was now racing to stop them. If not, then they would have been better served maintaining the barrier until the undead all died for want of mortals to drain of blood. No, he was convinced of it. Unfortunately, it seemed the Empire was not coming alone.

"Prince Tyrion you say," he mused to Elize from atop Drakenhof. He knew the Asur wouldn't countenance the capture of their princess, but to send their greatest hero. He felt himself smile. A worthy challenge. "And Hans Leitdorf of course," the old warrior wasn't one to give up.

"And they aren't all, others are coming. With the barrier falling foes come from all directions. Another host of elves comes from the south west, it seems they crossed the border just before the barrier was torn down."

"Athel Loren," Mannfred muttered. Only the world roots could get around that barrier, and only the elves of the wood knew it. "How many?"

Elize brushed some dirt from her cuff, "barely any. That host is the smallest by far."

"We should still take care," Mannfred said, "elves are always dangerous. Who else?"

"Beastmen," Elize spat. "The animals have been released like dogs from the slips, it seems all they were waiting for was the barrier to fall. They are tearing down Sylvania from the north with their usual fury, but a more focussed drive."

It didn't surprise Mannfred. "The Dark Gods know that Nagash could rival them for power. They seek to prevent his return, and with the men of the north otherwise occupied, they turn to their beasts."

"A lot of them." Elize replied. "The beasts outnumber all our other foes combined and by far."

"But they are, as you so aptly put it my dear, beasts, and they will be put down." He would have Niklaus deal with them. That vampire enjoyed hunting and knew the north of the province well. "There's another, who have I forgotten?"

Elize nodded, biting her lip, one fang drawing blood. "Karak Kadrin has opened it's gates, a grand... throng, is that what the dwarfs call them? I don't know, anyway, they descend on the north east."

Mannfred hissed as he remembered hearing the news the first time. In truth, the only army that worried him was that of the dwarfs. He had been careful since his resurrection about attracting the attention of the Slayer King, he had spent the better part of a century treading lightly around Ungrim Ironfist and his kin. All for nought it seemed, they were coming anyway. He curled his hand into a fist. The Empire suffered from a being battle worn, both hosts of the elves lacked numbers and the beastmen lacked anything that might be called discipline. The dwarfs suffered from none of these flaws, their armies were disciplined, skilled, they hadn't been bogged down by a campaign or worn out from one.

He couldn't say he was surprised though. He had been preparing for this since before he found his truce with Arkhan. He knew that when he made his preparations for his ritual that someone would catch on, and that his enemies would make a stab at stopping him. Here it was, except that it was four stabs instead of one. No matter. "Then we should deal with them all. The enemy will be making their way here, and we will punish them for every step. Give the order to reinforce the defences of Drakenhof, then send out the agents. Empty the barrows and mass graves, bring the soldiers here; rouse the ghouls and direwolves and awaken the banshees, send them out to disrupt the enemy. Pick off their scouts, cut down isolated units, slow the enemy to a crawl."

"Slowing them to a crawl won't beat them," Elize said. "And if they unite here it will be difficult to stop them."

"I am aware. Time will defeat this enemy, they will be slowed as they are sure to maintain their formations, and paranoia will strike at their men. And the ritual is nearly ready."

"You think it will be ready before they get here?"

He nodded. "I do," he lied. "Now go, Elize, oversee preparations."

After she had bowed away, Mannfred looked out over his land. In truth, the enemy would make it to Drakenhof, he knew it, in fact he was relying on it. Usurping Arkhan's ritual would take concentration, and the other vampires, the more ambitions, Elize at the least, might seek to take advantage. But if his enemies were attacking, they would be defending themselves, and it was in the nature of the undead to hold to it, lest they lose all they have. They would defend themselves, he would usurp the ritual, and then, with his power, he would crush several of his most powerful enemies at once, leaving the world ripe to be taken for his. Still, delaying the enemy was important, and he set about planning to deploy his army in and around Drakenhof for the coming attack.


	11. 1-11

"My Lord Heldenhammer, watch over Your people and armies as they fight in Your name against the enemies that were once Your own. Grant their arms the strength to fight and their hearts the strength to hold against the darkness that is coming for us." He knelt before the same rosewood altar that he had as a squire, with carved representations of the Imperial Griffin on the surface. It was a cheap thing, in truth, by now he could have had it replaced with a gold plated altar, or extolled every priest to pray on his behalf. Indeed many would have said that it was an unnecessary encumbrance for the advance forces he was leading, but Karl Franz had prayed before the same altar for thirty-two years, and he wasn't about to stop now. Not today of all days. "Remember Your servant, for I have always been faithful. I do not fear death or hardship, as long as it is in Your name. I fear only that I will be unworthy of the armour I wear, the men I lead, or Your holy warhammer which I bear into this battle."

His breath was misting the air before him in the tent as the frosty winter began to descend on the Empire. Outside he heard the sounds of war and battle. He heard priests and captains barking to the common men, artillery pieces hauled across the furrowed earth on iron wheels and the stamping of horses hooves as squires and grooms prepared them for their masters. They were familiar sounds – war had followed him all his life, and he was used to it. In that, if nothing else, this day was nothing new.

"Let no man doubt my devotion. When I slay, it is in Your name, when I fight, it is in Your name, and when my time falls, let it be in Your service. And when people remember me, years from now, let them say that I did my duty to You and yours." Karl Franz took a final breath and made the sign of the comet on his breast before he opened his eyes. Ghal Maraz, the Warhammer was before him, golden and glowing with holy light. He took it up, light as a feather in his grip, but when he swung it it would bring the force of the mountains themselves crashing on his foes.

When he left the tent he was greeted by a circle of men in crisp armour and encased in rigid discipline, the commanders of the army before him, who would serve under him in his first battle in this war. "Gentlemen. Let us begin."

As the army had been marching across Middenland news had reached them of a dire sort. The Empire was beset, the vanguard of the enemy army had already begun crossing the border to attack Ostland. Count Valmir was fighting a desperate battle to hold against them. Knowing that he had to keep the enemy contained as much as possible, he ordered his forces forward. Taking a full third of his army, he force marched ahead, Units from Hochland and Talabecland had joined him, also having been sent ahead and, under his united command, they moved on to Ostland, where they were met with a glimmer of hope.

Count Valmir von Raukov had been commanding the northern frontier of the Empire for decades, and he had much experience in this regard. He had pulled back allowing the armies of the enemy in where, surrendering to their chaotic nature, they split up to ravage his land and take his fortresses. Valmir himself, gathering a rapid force of soldiers, did not simply let them do so, instead he hit them, lifting one siege after another, cutting down isolated warbands and focussing his strength against weakened enemies. At the same time he rallied his troops, siphoning off some soldiers from each fort he liberated as well as raising more. He had started with a few hundred knights and Outriders, he had gathered several thousand men before marching south to join Franz at the border with Hochland. With Valmir's added forces, Franz now had enough to attack the hard heart of this chaotic vanguard, currently besieging the fortified town of Lubrecht. "This is only the tip of the spear," General Otto von Brumderhack, leading the Talabec advanced forces had said. "Should we risk our forces so readily so early?"

The General was younger than most, born to the von Brumderhack line that had produced many talented Talabec generals, but Franz did not believe the Count of Talabecland would have entrusted his vanguard to an amateur. "You will find that the spear is much less deadly once the tip is broken," he reminded the General sternly. "Besides, we must have freedom of movement within Ostland if we want the advantage." The General had paused, but eventually nodded.

But even if this was the tip of the spear, Franz remained concerned. The chaotic horde besieging Lubrecht still outnumbered his combined vanguards and Aldebrand's forces many times over. The field before them was wide open. The fortress town of Lubrecht was on top of a steep ill complete with wooden stakes and even from here, across a wide plain, Franz could see that many enemies dotted the hill. The Burgomeister, or whoever was commanding the defence was so far doing a splendid job. The hill fell down to a wide plain which swept across to a small wood to his left flank, it's branches naked in the winter air, a thick coating of brown leaves blanketed the roots, rustling in the wind. A small ridge jutted out like a sword from the south of the wood, giving him an ample stand on which to put his limited artillery pieces. The majority of his artillery was with the main army, led by Helborg, coming up from behind, and the armies of Talabecland and Hochland faced a similar problem, the only artillery they had were those that Valmir had gathered, and that was a pitifully small amount. Just below the artillery were the handgunners and crossbowmen of Hochland and Talabecland, while their infantry formed tight blocks at the base of the hillock. He had placed the older General Mannsted of Hochland to command them. In a defensive position like that, he wanted experience above a fiery nature. Von Brumderhack had been given command of the combined cavalry reserves. Knights and outriders from both regions as well as some of Ludenhof's veterans, but most of Valmir's army was deployed on the right, holding fast against a river that curved behind Lubrecht to the west and up to the north, meaning the attackers could only face the city on three fronts. Unlike the left flank or Franz's men, Valmir's forces were deployed in a column, a sword ready to thrust at the enemy. Meanwhile Franz was ready, holding fast with his men in red, white gold and black in a wide block of discipline in the centre. They would be the anchor, he knew, his flanks would fold or hold depending on the centre. Behind them were the cavalry, a heavy detachment of Reiksguard and several other units to bolster them, including the Royal Altdorf Gryphites, a regiment of demigryph knights, their deadly beasts ready to bound and slash their way through the enemy.

They would get their chance soon enough, the enemy horde was not letting them deploy without challenge. Lurching like a drunkard, it soon began rolling across the wide open plain towards them. "Positions," Franz said, and the generals left to command their detachments. Only the Elven Prince, Teclis, remained with him. Most of the elves had gone with Prince Tyrion, but a small force remained to guard Teclis, who's magical prowess would no doubt come in useful during the battle. The tall, slender elf stood tall, clutching his staff tightly, not giving a whiff of worry. Of course Teclis had been there during the last great Chaos invasion, countered by Magnus the Pious, this vanguard would not be the greatest Chaos army he had ever seen. "Sound the advance." The drums beat and trumpets screeched as his army advanced. The infantry guarding the hillock for his artillery took a few shuffling steps before planting their shields to hold. His centre advanced a little beyond that, not so far as to let themselves get enveloped, but just a bit that let them fan out and be a more prime target for the animalistic horde. Aldebrand was advancing with more commitment, his sword driving down the river against a force of the enemy. Even here Franz could see that they were glinting in the light. Heavy infantry. He wished Aldebrand luck, but noted that his flank was screened with outriders and other infantry units, he wasn't letting himself get surrounded.

The picture of the enemy was starting to become less blurred, shapes were becoming defined and he started to make sense of the mess charging like rabid dogs. The enemy along the river were preparing to receive Valmir, but the rest were not waiting for battle to come. The vast horde of infantry was making for his men and the left flank. In particular he noted that horsemen were charging at his centre, swinging heavy axes that could carve through his blocks if they weren't careful. "Order the artillery to fire on the cavalry," he said and one of his runners spurred his horse to the hill. "Sigmar be with us," he prayed. Warrior Priests were saying the same all along the line, filling the men with the faith and fire needed to hold. Like a thousand drums being rung at once, the horde slammed into his lines of disciplined footmen and the slaughter began. His infantry juddered and held as the army swept around them, like rocks against the tide. The serried steel weapons of the empire rose and fell, sending up hunks of barbarian flesh as they carved through the enemy warriors. Many of them were naked, pale flesh daubed with warpaint. He saw several hurl themselves onto pikes meant to stop a charging horse, their eyes wide and limbs flailing in a kind of wild ecstasy while others met the halberds, spears and swords of the main line of infantry and fell before them, their brutish axes ringing off shields and armour as they were brought low by the imperial army. "Hold fast." He ordered. "For The Empire!"

 _Eastern Ostland_

How long had it been since Katarin had been on the run? The last Tzarina of Kislev, fleeing the enemies that her fathers and her fathers' fathers would have sent scurrying to the north like whipped dogs. But she had to stay strong. As an Ice Witch, she learned that her powers came from the very earth of Kislev, but as Tzarina, her people were her land. She had sent her people running for the Empire as soon as she'd heard of the scale of the invasion, soldiers remaining behind to fight an enemy they thought they knew, but soon showed himself to be more fearful than any other that had come before. Who knew what had happened to the others? On their way west this last column had encountered fields of dismembered corpses, some gutted in mass sacrifices, others twisted in agony, their frozen faces filled with terror. Others had made it though, they had to have done, these last few hundred could not be all that was left of Kislev.

Urskin's heavy breath misted up the air like smoke from an industrial furnace. Her father's faithful mount had come back at Erengrad, the final city of Kislev to hold out, and from where she'd tried to hold back the chaos hordes along the River Lynsk. Her usual mount had fallen under chaos blades, her guards were dead and the enemy warlord was about to claim her head when the bear had returned, roaring to the heavens and ripping the warlord's head from his shoulders scattering his warriors and allowing the riders of Kislev to push them back for the twelfth time on the twelfth day. She had been resigned to death there, that she might have bought enough time for the rest of her people to survive, to flee for the safety of Franz's Empire. But Urskin had reminded her of what her father had always told her: Kislev is the people and the people are Kislev. As a vast armada of enemy longships had come to trap her between them and the army on land, she had found her strength. Summoning her powers she had unleashed a blizzard on the land and led what was left of her people from Kislev south, the last soldiers of Kislev, protecting the last column of refugees.

The small figure held against her shuffled in her sleep. She smiled wearily, holding the little girl, Miska, close to her chest. Miska had lost her parents to the initial invasion and her older sister to a raid by chaos marauders on the way south, and Katarin had taken her under her own guardianship. The girl had the ice white skin, bright blue eyes and flaming hair of the Gospodar people, the founding tribe of Kislev, and was named for first Khan-Queen, Miska the Slaughterer.

Katarin blinked a little of the tiredness from her eyes and gripped Urskin tighter. "My Tzarina," Vladmir's voice drilled into her skull suddenly. He was the commander of what was left of the winged hussars, veteran horsemen who had earned the right to wear winged helms. They, and the last of the bear riders were the best soldiers left to them. Vladmir had been vital to keeping the column moving and alive, pressing all men of age into military service, pushing the weapons of the dead into their hands and interspacing them with the last infantry of Kislev's army to fight alongside the veterans of a hundred running battles since the invasion had begun. This far into the march, women were also pressed into service, thrusting blunted swords with untrained hands, but it was enough to protect the old, young and helpless in the middle.

"What is it, Vladmir?" she asked and saw him stiffen. Even now, with their country gone, he disliked the informality that she addressed him with.

"You must rest, my lady, you are draining yourself too much. The blizzard..."

She glanced over her shoulder. She'd been maintaining the blizzard in Kislev even as they crossed into the Empire, determined to hold the enemy back for as long as possible. "It is keeping us safe," she told him, the ice lacing her voice. "I will do whatever I must to preserve what is left of my people, and until we can find Franz and beg his protection, I must keep the enemy away however I can."

Vladmir wasn't silenced so easily. "Tzarina, it is all well keeping the enemy behind us from catching up, but what of those ahead. Many marauders have entered the Empire and we must be ready to face them, the soldiers need your help. They need their Tzarina."

"I am here, Vladmir, and as long as there is a single Kislevite still alive, I will protect them," she clutched Miska closer to her chest. "You have my word as Tzarina of the Kislevite peoples that I will do so."

Vladmir was about to respond when a call came from the front of the column. "Riders approaching, they bear the banner of the Empire!"

For the first time in weeks, the Tzarina's heart lifted. Hope, they'd finally found it.

 _The Battle of Lubrecht_

"Tell Mannsted to start pulling up the ridge, give the infantry the high ground advantage," he commanded and a runner was dispatched at once. In all, Franz was pleased with the progress of the battle. The enemy cavalry charge had been broken by the artillery and stiff imperial infantry resistance, but the bulk of the horde on foot had followed on regardless, some of them hacking down he cavalry that had dared to run before slamming into his line, which juddered, but held. At his shoulder his faithful mount, Deathclaw, pawed at the ground, eager to be in the midst of battle. "In good time, my friend," he said, patting Deathclaw's neck. To his left the High Elf Prince Teclis was working his spells with speed and subtlety, there were battle wizards amongst the army, but most of the spells on the field were cast by the Elf. Wherever his men were floundering they were rejuvenated, wherever the enemy were pushing too far they fell under a bombardment of magical power that shattered them and sent them reeling.

He turned to Valmir. His right flank had met stiff resistance, but was pushing the enemy back under a hail of steel and shot. "Tell Valmir to hold back his advance, if he pushes too far he'll be cut off and cut down." Another runner sped off. Armies this size were like wild beasts, after several hours of fighting they had to be reigned in or they would rush after anything and everything and if the battle turned into a chaotic melee then it was lost. But he saw the runner get caught amidst the forces of chaos and cut down. He cursed, Valmir would keep advancing and risk everything. "Order the right of the centre to fold back, refuse the flank, create an opening, use the Greatswords to hold the refused flank." He rushed off his orders and his captains immediately began barking orders. "Tell General Otto it's time. Send the knights into the gap we create, he's to smash through and link up with Valmir while we reform the line. Teclis-"

"Don't worry about the centre," Prince Teclis declared, still working his spells. "Take to the air, let friend and foe alike know that the Emperor has joined the battle." Franz nodded and turned to Deathclaw. This was the pivotal moment, if Valmir wasn't saved they would suffer defeat. "Now it's time, my friend." He pulled himself to his feet, mounting Deathclaw. He was more comfortable here than he ever was on the Imperial throne. He looked to his captains, making sure they knew that he was going to battle and the centre was in their hands. After affirming that he tapped Deathclaw, and the beast leapt into the air. The battle circled and spun beneath him as Deathclaw gained height. Here he was free of the sounds of steel and steel, the screams of the wounded and the crack of black powder weapons. Here he could lead the battle. His army seemed to be like toy soldiers, but as he knew they would, they were following his orders perfectly, the right of his centre was refusing, turning to kill on another front as the enemy began to wrap around it in a large embrace. A smoky haze still hung over the hill, where cannons and handguns were blasting into the horde which was not breaking General Mannsted's stiff defence. And from the back came General Otto's cavalry reserve, unblooded and unbloodied, fresh and glinting in the late afternoon sun, charging towards the opening in the line. "Dive," he said, and Deathclaw obeyed, folding his wings and diving low, the wind rushing through him as the smells, sounds and tremors of battle returned to him. He pulled up on the reins and Deathclaw began to pull up. At the last minute he opened his wings to their full span and let out a great shriek that pierced the ears of the enemy forces wrapping around his infantry force. He saw the enemy look up, faces filled with momentary terror at the great beast that was coming towards them. Then Deathclaw was among them, his claws tearing through bare chests and leather shields as he rained Ghal Maraz down on the enemy, shattering shields and swords and splitting skulls in deluges of blood and bone. And into the momentary confusion and terror came Otto's cavalry, carving through the stunned enemy like a cake and pushing onwards. Deathclaw took to the sky as the imperial knights swept all before them and cut their way through to Valmir. He was no more use here. From above he could see that Valmir was completely stalled, his troops assailed from the front and flank, their backs to the river as they fought to hold against the crushing tide.

He grimaced as he looked out over the rest of the horde. The large horde was still spread out over the wide plain, many warriors uncommitted to the assault. He'd hoped to launch the cavalry when the enemy were reeling, rather than to send them reeling. Now he had to capitalise, or his knights would get bogged down and trampled. He turned and raced over to the centre. "Captains!" he called out from just over their heads. "Sound the general advance, begin pushing the horde back."

The orders were given and soon he saw that his centre was slowly pushing back, the enemy had been disrupted by the cavalry charge and had stopped pushing themselves. Following the knights into the gap were the Greatswords, their huge two handed blades carving apart whole bands of enemy warriors as they advanced, the warrior priests called out more battle prayers and Teclis redoubled his efforts, allowing them to steadily drive the enemy back towards Lubrecht. His left flank still held, cannons, guns and crossbows still dealing damage to the enemy. They would be his anchor around which his army would swing.

Over the din of battle he heard a faint crack and looked towards Lubrecht. Small trails of smoke rose from the walls like it was smoking a dozen pipes, but with the chaos seemingly engulfing the enemy rear he knew what was happening. The defenders were firing on the chaos horde from the town, trying to assist the imperial army.

Franz turned back to his own army to manage its advance. The advantage was theirs now, they just had to keep pushing. He failed to notice another force had entered the battle.

 _Eastern Ostland_

Hope had been almost the wrong emotion to flow through the Tzarina. The riders had not been a welcome party or soldiers fresh to the war. Rather they were three weary outriders, two with battered helmets and one with none at all. They had come from the fortified town of Lubrecht. An enemy force was gathering near them, and soon they would be under siege, they were looking for any soldiers who could help them man the walls and defend the town until relief could arrive. Had Ostland fallen already, unable to gather an army to relieve its own towns? The riders assured her that it wasn't the case, that Lubrecht would be relieved, that Count Valmir was doing so across the west of the province and that the entire Empire was marching to relieve them. But was that the truth, or a lie told in desperation for help. Before she'd had a whole council to advise her, now it was just Vladmir.

"I did not bring my people from Kislev to be put under siege," she told him.

Vladmir nodded, his hard jaw slackened. "I know that your majesty. I did not join the Winged Hussars to abandon Kislev's lands and cities to depravation. But that is not how we are now. Imperial towns are walled and strong, and if the enemy are besieging several of them as these scouts claim, then the open ground is no longer safe for us. To the east is the very mouth of the enemy horde. These messengers tell us that the lands to the east are under threat, which means the north and south likely are as well."

"And under threat they likely won't help us," she finished.

Vladmir nodded. "This town has asked for our help and it lies to the west. If they accept us, we have protection, if not we can keep pushing for safer lands."

Katarin nodded. She knew it was for the best. She wanted to believe the town was large enough and willing enough to accept her people, but for it to be offered then snatched away- she wasn't sure she could bear it, let alone her people who had been suffering for weeks and months. "If they won't let our people in, then you will continue to support me in our push west, and, if that is impossible, in... other ways."

Vladmir knew what she was implying. If there was no other option, then he would help her force their way into the town. They could cover it up afterwards, before Franz arrived, or she would offer her own life in repayment, but her people might survive. And if the town fell, then they lost nothing anyway.

She turned to the three soldiers, waiting hesitantly out of earshot. "Then we'll go to Lubrecht and see what it holds for us."

The column of refugees had gotten used to moving quickly and soon were on their way. Katarin looked behind them at the blizzard and closed her eyes, ending the spell. If the worst came to pass, then they would need her powers.

They pushed west, unharried by marauders, though they took two days to detour around a fairly substantial warband. They could have shattered it with their forces, but they needed every soldier at Lubrecht, for whatever was to come. They arrived at Lubrecht five days after the riders had found them

But they were too late. The Chaos warband had already put the town to siege. From across the river they saw the walls, manned by desperate soldiers blasting out at the enemy. The riders were hysterical in their lament, their friends and families were still in the town, holding out desperately. But even with the town in the way, they could see that it was hopeless, their few could never break that siege. "Please Tzarina!" Begged the riders. "You could do something, anything! We all have heard of the powers of the Ice-Queen of Kislev!"

She closed her eyes. Was there no end to this? No escape? "I'm sorry," she replied. "But I don't have the strength to shatter that horde." She had come to the Empire ready to swallow her pride and beg for help, it boded ill for her people that imperials were begging for her help. She turned to Vladmir. "Send riders down river, see if foes are on this bank as well."

Vladmir nodded as Katarin's heart fell back into its low hanging cradle. If there were no foes in the vicinity, they would push south to circle around and keep fleeing west, pray they met up with Franz.

"What's happening?" Miska asked in her soft and innocent voice?

She leant down and kissed her flaming hair. "We're still going, sweet thing," she said. "You need to be as strong as the first Miska for a while longer, can you do that for me?"

Miska nodded and sat up strong and proud on Urskin's back.

However, before too long, Vladmir's riders returned. "My Lady," one of them said. "The enemy are under attack, imperial armies have come from the south and are attempting to break through the enemy lines."

"They do?" She asked, her heart lifting again.

The rider nodded, a tangible sense of hope emanating from every syllable. "They not only hold strong but push, they are driving the vast horde of the enemy back, despite the horde's numbers." She looked around, whispers were flowing through her soldiers, whispers of hope and salvation, and a sense of vengeance as well. Every one of these marauders had passed through Kislev, desecrated their homes and families.

"The enemy are focussed on the fresh imperial armies?" She asked.

The rider nodded. "From what we could see, the siege is all but abandoned to attack them."

She turned to Vladmir. "What do we do?"

Vladmir paused for but a moment. "We knew we couldn't run forever," he stated matter-of-factly. "If the imperial armies press this horde from one side, we could strike from the other. Let those who have ravaged Kislev pay in blood and flesh for it."

Those words resonated on her heart strings. As an Ice Witch she was tied to the lands, she knew it and its suffering, and as Tzarina she knew her people and their suffering. The ice in her gave way to the fires of vengeance. They had been running, chased out of their ice halls and great stone cities to be made beggars in the Empire. The once-proud Gospodar people brought low. This was a chance for blood and vengeance, to remind her people and soldiers that there was a chance still. While every soldier who sacrificed themselves for the refugees did so gladly, she knew that her soldiers, her people would rather die thrusting a sword into the heart of their enemies than raising a shield against them. A look around told her that they felt the same, even the refugees. "If we do this, we leave you to your own safety," she told them.

"You haven't left us, Tzarina," one woman said, the ferocity making her gaunt frame seem hard and strong again. "Strike a blow against our enemies."

She could tell that there were others who felt likewise, though she saw the fear in the eyes of many others at the thought of her protection leaving them. But this was their chance, if Franz knew that she had chosen not to help his armies he may well refuse them his protection. "Then we strike," she declared. In previous times there might have been cheers from her soldiers, but not now. Now there was only grim determination and cold fury.

"But... but the river..." one of the riders pointed out meekly.

"Is no matter to the Kislevites," Katarin declared. "All those who were pressed into service will remain behind to protect the people. Soldiers, stand with me, we go to strike a blow against our foes."

"But we want to fight!" Declared one of them.

"You will get your chance in time," she said, smiling at him. She was so unused to it that it hurt her cheeks to do so. "But for now, protect the people. Soldiers, form up, flying column, the enemy will learn what it means to harm Kislev and leave it alive."

Vladmir began organising the men as she slid Miska from Urskin's back. She knelt down before the girl. "I'm sorry," she said, stroking her cheek gently. Miska had the ice inside her, she could feel it. In another time she would have been trained as an Ice Witch. But now she was just another girl. "But I must go to battle."

Miska did not cry or beg her to stay, she had been hardened. "I know," she said. She reached out and hugged her suddenly. Katarin was startled, but returned it softly. "Don't die." Miska whispered.

Katarin couldn't promise, not now, not when she had no realm to lie for. "I will do what I can." Miska accepted that and stepped back. "You still have it?" She asked the girl. Miska looked around and, seeing no one was watching, she pulled on the gold chain around her neck. It was Katarin's necklace, given to her by her mother. It seemed so foolishly sentimental in this time, but when she'd seen Miska's ice, she'd seen something in her and so given it to her. "Good. Keep it safe, no matter what."

She nodded fiercely.

Knowing she couldn't waste more time, Katarin pulled herself back onto Urskin's back. She drew Fearfrost from her waist, the magical ice blade of her enemies would serve her well. Her men were formed up into a column, Vladmir at the head. There was no standard to bear, so she would have to serve that purpose.

She looked at her men, seeing the determination and pride for Kislev in their eyes. "You all know that I bore no heirs in my time on Kislev's throne," she told them, fixing them wither her gaze, her voice never waivering. "But I have my sons and daughters with me here today. The people are Kislev and Kislev is the people, and today, we fight for our lost sons and daughters, for our fallen brothers and sisters and our proud fathers and mothers. We may be in a foreign land, but today we show the foul hell-spawned barbarians that Kislev stands!" Her men raised their lances and swords in salute and Katarin turned her power on the river, channelling her ice magic and freezing the water over in a matter of seconds. Other steeds would tremble at the thought of crossing it, but not Kislev's mounts, and the bears and horses of her people crossed the bridge of ice to engage the enemy.

When they circled the town they saw the sheer size of the enemy force. From across the field the imperial forces seemed tiny in comparison, but her riders were right, they were pushing, and the horde, for all its size, was disorganised, under assault from the army in the south and the town's guns to the north. Now the added might of Kislev would show them true terror. "Charge! For Kislev!"

Her men roared out a battle cry and charged. They concentrated in a large force, a gathered fist that would slam into the enemy with all the rage and hatred that only a lost people could bring. The first enemies they rode down didn't even notice them. She cut off two heads with Fearfrost and cut another man in half before they had even started looking. But soon they were looking, soon they were terrified.

As they hit the mush of the horde the bear riders scattered, unlike horsemen, they could hold their own in a prolonged melee, while Vladmir led the horsemen in the charge, carving through the main enemy line. She led Urskin and the others to follow them, but the thought of leading was alien, calling to her from across a distant water. She sliced to the left and right with Fearfrost, carving through warrior and barbarian with ease shields splitting and weapons shattering before Fearfrost. Urskin also reaped a bloody tally, his claws ripping at faces and smashing skulls while his powerful jaws punished any who thought to take him head on. Screaming in fury she unleashed a torrent of ice magic upon the enemy surrounding her, the wind swirling and spiralling with ice shards ripping through flesh and shattering bone. "Die, die you foul, motherless bastards!" She screamed as she hacked through foe after foe. The enemy were scattering now, not even trying to fight the vengeful Kislevites.

Through her anger she saw them rallying and gathered her ice about her before sending it flying forwards like a volley of arrows, punching through skin and bone in a great slaughter that made her heart lift.

"Witch!" She heard a great bellow call out and snapped her head in its direction. A great warlord, clad in heavy plate with serrated edges and holding a large sword pointed at her was stood a head taller than his men. At least six skulls hung from his belt, his lips were ripped off, leaving only a blood fanged smile behind. "Face me, Witch, I'll send you to join your dead land!"

"You will die for what you've done to Kislev, savage!" Urskin didn't need urging as he rushed forward, charging at the man who could only be the warlord of this army. "Die!" She swung at him with Fearfrost but he caught the blade with his foul sword. She attacked again, not letting up as she rained blow after blow on him, but he repelled every one, sending a few ripostes her way. He was good, but she was Kislev! Raising Fearfrost she met his blade and held fast. The warrior was surprised at first and that was all that Urskin needed to slam his wrist with his great paw, smashing the sword aside and leaving the warlord unprotected.

Katarin leapt from Urskin's back, slashing with Fearfrost and cleaving the warlord's left hand from his wrist. His roar of anguish became one of pain as he clutched at his wrist. "For Praag!" She screamed, reaching out and letting the ice begin to gather, the wind tearing around him. "For Erengrad!" She seized his head with her left hand. The warrior shook violently as the liquid in him began to freeze, his eyes turned to ice in their sockets while his blood began to solidify and freeze. "For Kislev!" She screamed and the warlord shattered apart.

The horde reared back at the loss of their leader and the final terror shot through them. They began to flee the field.

Franz did not know where the new warriors had come from, for they flew no banner, but it mattered not, they had finished their victory, carving a bloody path through the disorganised rear of the enemy. "After them knights!" he roared, raising Ghal Maraz as a signal and his knights cheered and followed it. "Kill them all!" Every warrior that died here was one he wouldn't have to fight later, and his men were out for blood.

As the slaughter was complete Franz learned the identity of the new warriors. Kislevites. Most shocking of all was that this force was led by the Tzarina herself, according to the riders at the front. He rushed to find her. It would be a greater victory still if the Tzarina was still alive.

She was. He found her standing over the body of the enemy warlord, blood stains on her face, limbs, clothes and blade. The enemy had felt the full fury of her powers, judging by what was left of him.

The Kislevites rallied to their Tzarina, falling in behind her as his Reiksguard knights joined him. He approached, ready to offer than hand of friendship and thank her for her assistance. He was taken completely off guard when she looked at him, his hammer and then dropped to one knee, head bowed. Her men were confused as well, it seemed. "Emperor Franz," she said, in a voice hoarse from screaming, but still holding the regal nature of a monarch. "I, Katarin, Tzarina of Kislev, humbly beg you for your protection for my people."


	12. 1-12

Tyrion had nothing to restrain his anger as Regrakhof; all through Sylvania his rage had been vented on the undead foes that dared stand in his way, whole graveyards of zombies and shambling skeletons that had tried to block the way to his daughter. But most hadn't stood. His forces had suffered from swift and subtle attacks by isolated groups of enemies in the darkness. They had been small things at first, isolated watchmen at night or a scout that never returned, but the further they got into Sylvania, the more Tyrion realised what was happening, they were being stalked – von Carstein knew that he couldn't beat them in the field, so was weakening them with every step. As they got closer he started losing dozens of men at a time, rampant attacks by ghouls and other beasts on his supply train, his scout patrols had to be doubled in size to make it more likely that one would return if they ran into misstep. Knowing in his heart that his army would be needed to save Aliathra, he ordered the march slowed. Instead his mages alone ranged out to seal the crypts and graveyards that they came across. When the human armies had joined them after destroying Fort Oberstyre, their Witch Hunter led hunting parties out against the ghouls which together allowed him and his army to make it to Regrakhof, where they had awaited the last contingent of the alliance.

"It took them long enough," he breathed hard to Eldyra as the Dwarf host of the Slayer King finally arrived. Though he hated to admit it, the army that the dwarf brought with him was impressive in the extreme, rank upon rank of infantry, with great war machines following up behind.

"They're here now, my prince," his former squire replied. "And now we can press on to Drakenhof, recover the Everchild, and punish the one who took her."

Tyrion nodded. "Summon the war council."

As it turned out that, was unnecessary. All the leaders of the allied host knew what had to be done. Hans Leitdorf and Tancred of Quenelles said very little, though the joy of marching on Drakenhof was written all over Leitdorf's face, the Grand Master of the Knights of Sigmar's Blood would have his revenge. Araloth, who had reemerged from the shadows to join them only nodded with grim determination. He had no idea how Alarielle had persuaded the Asrai to join the assault, but she had, and he had no doubt they would be helpful, the Elves of Athel Loren may be insular in nature, but he trusted them far more than he did his other allies, the humans were driven by a desire to destroy von Carstein first and foremost, and the dwarfs were dwarfs, whatever Finubar said, they were not to be trusted. The Dwarf King Ungrim growled that he was ready, and returned to his host, the last to arrive were the first to depart, and the Slayer King's host led the path to Drakenhof. The rest followed quickly in grim silence. They all had been harried by the undead and knew that the greatest threat remained Mannfred von Carstein and that soon they would come to battle with him.

 _Castle Drakenhof_

Mannfred oversaw his serried ranks of skeletal warriors and undead legions. The very best warriors he could gather were with him now and his army numbers thousands strong, led by vampires, undead warlords and necromancers. He had spent the last week culling the latter group, those petty Necromancers that served no purpose he had slain and added to the zombie legions where they would prove more useful, and much more silent.

His enemies would be upon him soon, he knew, his outlying packs of ghouls, beasts and swift warriors had done what they could, weakening all the hosts coming for him. Count Niklaus had been particularly successful, he and his lover had slain the chieftains and shamans of the great beastmen warherds coming for them and, without direction, they had turned on each other and his most numerous foe was eliminated. But the rest were coming, two hosts of men, two of elves and one great host of Dwarfs and would be hungry for battle. Who was Mannfred to deny them that after such an arduous journey?

He had divided his forces into three. Such numbers had he gathered that Drakenhof could never hope to hold them all. On the outside was the largest formation, led by Dieter the Sinkler, a massive undead host of infantry and cavalry that was to harm the enemy as much as possible, while also sticking to them like treacle, keeping them outside the walls as long as possible while doing as much damage as possible. Even so, he knew this force would be defeated in fairly short order, against the combined might of Sigmar's Blood, Prince Tyrion's High Elves, the Bretonnian Knights, the Wood Elves and the Dwarfs, they couldn't hope to be victorious. Inside the walls his forces were divided yet further, the junctions would be held by hard forces, led by armoured vampires and necromancers, meanwhile the streets would be a bloody gauntlet of the dead, with more rising from crypts and catacombs to ensnare the enemy, carve them up and take them piecemeal. If all went well, the living hosts would be held here long enough for his work to be complete. But if not, the Drakenhof Templars waited inside the castle proper, ready to hold the walls against the worn down invading army.

He was ready, there was just one final matter to see to – Vlad. Arkhan the Black was powerful, dangerous, and if he detected Vlad and sought to use that against him, then Mannfred would have to see to it, for which he would need prior warning. For this reason he took Ghorst down to the crypt where he held his sire. "Stay in this room," he told the necromancer, "alert me if anyone comes for him."

Ghorst nodded. "I will, my lord Mannfred." His eyes had shone with loyalty. Not surprising, Mannfred had repaired the broken skin and bones of Ghorst's brothers, granting them fine armour and weapons to befit their new station as more refined undead.

Mannfred nodded. "See that you don't fail me."

He swept away, leaving Ghorst and his brothers to guard Vlad and moving to join Arkhan on top of the castle.

Everything that had been gathered, the staff, the armour, the crown, the books, the sword and of course the sacrifices were being made ready by Arkhan's unliving servants. _"Our enemies will be here soon."_ Arkhan said by way of greeting. _"You were supposed to dispense with them."_

"And I will," Mannfred replied, _just as soon as I claim the powers of Nagash._

"You won't succeed!" Volkmar snarled at them, "If you think that Franz will let you, you're as much a fool as an abomination, Sigmar curse you."

Mannfred smacked him across the face. "Enough with your blaspheming, priest, besides, Franz hasn't deigned to come himself, he has sent his lapdog, your companion in arms Leitdorf, and even preferred to send his Dwarfen allies than accompany Prince Tyrion himself." He regarded Aliathra as he said that and saw her twitch in hope.

"Prince Tyrion," she said, softly, maintaining her pose and almost entirely removing hope from her tone. "I suggest you run and hide rather than fight him."

"Oh I'm sure," Mannfred replied, stroking her soft cheek with his palm. "Have no fear, he will not arrive in time to save you. Only to see you serve a greater purpose."

" _Does the great Mannfred von Carstein have nothing better to do than gloat over a mortal?"_ Arkhan asked.

"Do you not have more important things to do than remind me to do that which I have done?"

Arkhan's empty eye sockets turned to him. _"We are ready. I will begin channelling the magic. I won't be able to hide it. The enemy will come."_

"And I will deal with them. Begin, Liche."

Arkhan nodded and focussed his thoughts, calling upon the power of Shyish, channelling the Wind of Death.

All the wizards, spellsingers, runesmiths and the Bretonnian damsel in the invading army felt the sudden shift in the wind that signified the beginning of the ritual. Tyrion, Hans, Araloth, Ungrim and Tancred all pushed their forces onwards towards Drakenhof.

 _The Battle of Drakenhof_

Ungrim could tell that the mannling and elgi armies were worn out from their march, but they couldn't afford to stop. He knew nothing of magic, but the swirling dark clouds and rippling in the air at Drakenhof's summit boded ill, and they should move to stop it at all costs. He had always known that Mannfred would not make this easy on them, the Zangunaz had assembled a massive host outside the walls, and yet more would be waiting inside. Thankfully they already knew how they would attack, their scouts had reported the enemy army and they had decided on their attack plan. It somewhat irked Ungrim that the honour of first blood wasn't his, but in the end, he knew that this situation required that he swallow his pride.

First blood would instead go to Tyrion, Tancred and Hans, who would lead their mounted forces in a lightning strike to cut through the undead horde and reach the Necromancers behind. They lined up, the rain hampering their vision as the horses got into line, hooves pawing at the ground as the war-bred destriers were eager to be charging, and Ungrim knew the knights on top were just as eager if not more so. He stamped on the earth, dragging his foot along the damp dirt, the mud gathering on his armoured boot. He grunted. "Get the guns in position!" He roared, if the rain continued they'd get stuck before long. "And keep the powder dry."

His engineers rolled the weapons forward, rolling them up until they were facing the walls, angling the barrels up so they wouldn't blast right through the back of solid dawi infantry regiments.

"In position, my king!" called Master Engineer Barzur.

Ungrim nodded. He could feel the rush through his veins that always came when he was about to enter battle. "Signal our readiness," he said simply.

A stout horn sounded against the pattering of the rain, letting the allies know that they were ready. As each formation reached readiness, more horns sounded from the manlings and elgi. They were ready, and he could now give the signal, the one call that would be heard by the entire battlefield, possibly all of Sylvania itself.

"Let's show them all the power of the dawi weapons of war. Powder those walls to dust, open fire!"

The dwarf cannons, organ guns and grudge throwers, together with the human artillery left over from the crusade let loose with crash like a god of smiths working on his anvil. As they did, flame cannons and bolt throwers directed their weapons against the great horde of undead before Drakenhof's walls. Puffs of dust were sent spiralling into the air as the ancient walls of Drakenhof were shaken to their foundations by the dwarfen artillery assault. Such a bombardment could have halted an entire Greenskin Waaagh, sent an entire clan of Skaven to their deaths or brought a kingdom to it's knees - and it was all directed at Drakenhof's walls. As the engineers reloaded their weapons for a second barrage, Ungrim noticed that the cavalry charge had begun.

Tyrion led the charge, his riders falling behind him – he hadn't had the time to draft some of the Dragon Princes of Caledor's army, but the silver helms at his back were more than enough, the nobility of Ulthuan encased in armour and forged into weapons of the Phoenix Court. But Malhandir was faster than any other steed, and first blood was his. As they reached the undead lines, shields locked into a protective wall, Tyrion raised Sunfang, the blazing sword of Aenerion and gently pulled on the steed's reins. The horse leapt over the lowered spears and landed on several skeleton warriors behind them. Sunfang flashed and flared, carving through bones and rusted mail like a scythe through wheat. Enemy weapons shattered on Malhandir's barding and were barrelled over as the Silver Helms slammed in behind him, scattering the undead bodies and pulverising their bones to dust beneath their hooves. To his right the Empire knights of the Order of Sigmar's Blood under Hans Leitdorf slammed into the enemy like a giant's club while to his left the Bretonnian knights of Quenelles charged in their lance formation, carving through the enemy and deep into their lines, one of the exalted Grail Knights was leading them, his sword glowing with holy light as he, the tip of the lance, drove through all that came before them. Against any mortal army, such a charge would be enough to shatter them into a thousand pieces, but not the undead, already the necromancers, safe on the wall were reforming the undead host while fresh corpses began to envelop the cavalry and bog them down in a great wave of the dead. Tyrion carved and cut but his sword arm could only count for so much before the weight of the enemy. He sought out the enemy commander, knowing that striking him down would bring this engagement to an end.

To the rear, Belannaer led the Elven mages and human wizards in countering the dark magics of the enemy, as long as they held the necromancers back from reforming their dead hosts. He watched as the infantry advanced, humans and elves together rushing to form protective wings and not allow the cavalry to be encircled.

Great crashing sounds rolled over the battle as the mighty dwarfen artillery barrage took down multiple chunks of wall. This was how the dwarfs fought. He had read accounts of the final battle of the War of the Beard, where the dwarfen army had waited until a dozen breaches were formed in the elven city before ordering their march.

Turning his attention back to the battle he could feel his mages overpowering the necromancers, lances of light magic ripped into the enemy line as they were able to start going on the offensive. But this worried Belannaer. "Where are you, von Carstein, Arkhan the Black, why aren't you stopping us?"

Tyrion felt spears shatter on his armour as he cut his way through enemy after enemy. Eldyra fought fiercely to one side, striking down one enemy after another, leading her knights from Tiranoc in an almighty attack on the enemy. They were pushing hard, but they weren't through yet, and the walls were tumbling down before their assault. "Die!" He roared, Malhandir pushing forward and leading him into another mass of foes that started to fall before his blade. The rain was making the ground slick but it was to the benefit of the living, every corpse that fell got stuck in the brown and red gloop, whatever magics were poured into them, they were not rising easily.

A momentary pause in the rainfall made him look up. The Bretonnian Pegasus knights were diving for the walls, Duke Tancred in their lead. The Pegasus knights fell on the necromancers that had thought themselves safe on the walls and cut them and their guards down.

"Onwards!" He ordered as the enemy soon failed to rise. They had to press their advantage.

A cry from his right flank made him turn. The enemy had encircled them, and brought a force of undead horsemen now racing through for the rearguard, where Belannaer and his mages had taken position. He smirked. That force wasn't nearly enough to break Belannaer and his mages.

Belannaer hissed with anger as he directed several spells onto the enemy knights charging at them, the rearguard of infantry and archers were already formed up and braced to receive the charge, but it would require his attention to end it. "Focus your power, let us be done with this quickly," he told his fellow mages, unlike those on the front line, there was no need to shout here. As one the elves and humans directed their powers on the enemy. Bones fell apart and many of the dead returned to their sleep as they hit the defenders of the mages. The line bent dangerously far, only with the last reserves being thrown in did it hold as archers tried desperately to help by unleashing swarms of arrows into the undead.

Belannaer eased up on his powers as he scanned the enemy line. He spotted the lone vampire among the undead, clad in armour of midnight black and wielding a cruel curved blade that was slashing right through the armour of his men. Gathering his magic to him he unleashed it in a mighty barrage against the vampire, a stream of bright power racing right for him. The vampire raised a shield just in time and resisted the attack with his own dark powers, but Belannaer kept up his attack and this vampire, whatever talent he had for magic, was no match for Belannaer and his shield broke and the power washed over him. The vampire let of a harsh, pained scream as the power stripped his unliving flesh from his bones and he fell to the ground, finally dead.

Belannaer turned his attention to the battle once more as his mages dealt with the now stalled and directionless cavalry attack. It had turned firmly in their favour, the enemy were slain, the necromancers on the walls had run, died when they came tumbling down or fell to the blades of Bretonnia's Pegasus knights, the last of the great undead mass was falling to the cavalry and infantry.

He glanced over at the dwarfen line, sure enough, as planned, the dwarfs had not been idle, as the battle outside the walls was being finished, the dwarf regiments were already marching in through several holes in the wall, pushing into Drakenhof proper. Soon they would be joined by the men of the Empire and the elves and all three would converge on Drakenhof, where Belannaer could feel the epicentre of the dark magic in the province had gathered. They had no time to rest from the battle, they had to push on through the city.

Mannfred was impressed, He hadn't expected Dieter's force to fall so quickly. _"You are supposed to hold them."_ Arkhan reminded him.

"Oh I am, liche," Mannfred replied. "I will be joining the next phase of the defence myself." He didn't want to leave Arkhan, but the next phase was important and he would have to see to it personally.

" _I am beginning to wonder about your talents as a commander. No wonder you fell once already at this rate. What is your plan?"_

Mannfred sneered. "The enemy have come to my home, it has been a long and arduous journey. For now, the mortals of the city will take shelter, and the other denizens of Drakenhof will indulge our guests... with a bloody feast."

 _In the bowels of Drakenhof_

Vlad seethed with silent rage. Mannfred had always been the most beloved of those he had sired, the most ambitious, the most cunning, the most magically gifted, the most blind. Ever since he had learned of his errant pupil's plan, Vlad had been revisiting long forgotten memories, memories from a time when he bore a different name, knew a different love to Isabella, when he had served under Nagash personally, when he had sacrificed his life to see the Great Necromancer defeated and the vampires free of his control. Now Mannfred would undo all of that!

He was bound in magic, but he could still feel it, he could feel the battle raging above and around them. And he could feel the power from this necromancer. He could tell why Mannfred had chosen him, he was powerful, and driven, in another time he would have made a fine servant, now he had to die. As long as Mannfred had been keeping him restrained and isolated, limiting his blood supply, Vlad had been rendered impotent. But Vlad could still call a little power his own, not enough to challenge Mannfred while he was bound, but now that his wayward protégé was distracted, this was his chance, he'd even left the key with him in the necromancer Ghorst.

"Release me, necromancer," he groaned to Ghorst, who sat before him, cross legged, watching the door.

"I won't," Ghorst replied simply. "Lord Mannfred will destroy my brothers if I do."

"He is offering that which he can never give," Vlad urged. Ghorst looking away meant that Vlad couldn't fix him with his firm gaze, a gaze that had ensnared all but Isabella. "True restoration of the dead to life is impossible. The Kings of Nehekhara tried for millennia, and they did not truly succeed. He is using you."

"Lord Mannfred brought you back," Ghorst replied simply, watching the door intently.

"I am a vampire, your brothers were not, they are bones, animated by power, mockeries of what they were."

"You lie," Ghorst declared simply. There was a determination to that simplicity, this man needed him to be lying, but the seeds of doubt were still there.

"I do not lie, unlike Mannfred I have no need for it." As he kept the necromancer talking Vlad was reaching out with his powers, strangled as they were, to the brothers of the necromancer, stationed outside the door, subtly taking control of one of them for himself. He had to be careful, this was all for nought if Ghorst realised what he was doing. "But lying is Mannfred's chief weapon, it was when he was the mere whelp of a courtesan and it is now. He has become so good at it he lies to himself, he could never control the power of Nagash." He'd done, it, one of the brothers was his.

Vlad turned it to the door and made him rattle it gently. Helman Ghorst scrambled to his feet, staff in hand. "Brothers?" He called out, but the dead did not answer commands so. Vlad sent the brother slamming into the door hard and Ghorst took a step back, readying himself for battle, but too late, he was close enough. Gathering what strength he had, Vlad lunged, his fangs sinking into the back of Ghorst's neck.

The necromancer cried out in pain and dropped his staff to the floor with a clatter as he reached back to free himself, but it was futile, Vlad had been denied blood for too long and he half drained Ghorst so quickly the sanguine liquid seeped down his body. Like a hound on a rat, Vlad tossed his head and sent the moaning, feeble Ghorst flying across the room.

He let out a moan of relief and pleasure that he hadn't had since Isabella. "That was lovely." He felt his powers returning to him with the blood of Ghorst, his frame was filling out again and he could finally amass enough of his power to break free. Wrapping the magical cords around his arms, he pulled with all of his strength, breaking Mannfred's bonds and falling to the ground with a grunt, but the feeling of solid stone was a blessing after decades suspended above it. Pulling himself up on his powerful arms he crawled over to Ghorst who was starting to recover a little, with a single punch he knocked the necromancer cold and retrieved his knife. Vlad took the dagger at the necromancer's waist and flipped it in his hand. "Mannfred never did learn to look within." He drove the blade into his stomach and opened it up enough to stick his hand in. He grimaced against the pain but soon found the cold metal he was looking for, and drew the von Carstein Ring from within him. He'd hoped to hide it when he'd momentarily broken free from Mannfred, but hadn't had the time, so he'd had to swallow it, but now it was back and he slid it onto his finger. Holding his palm over the opening in his stomach, Vlad returned to Ghorst. "Now I need the rest of you," he said, and lunged for Ghorst's throat with his fangs. As he drank deeply he felt the ring working with the blood he was drinking to seal up his stomach. He also felt a strange burning sensation at the bottom of his legs. He took a momentary break from his feeding to look down and saw that new feet were pushing their way out from the stumps that were his legs. He returned to feeding, he needed to drain Ghorst dry and probably at least one other if he was going to gather the strength to stop Mannfred's mad plan before it was too late.

 _The Streets of Drakenhof_

Ungrim roared as he brought the axe of Dargo down, splitting the twisted skull of a Varghulf in two. His dawi were pushing into the city and now the confusion of fighting in the winding streets of a city, with units split off from commanders and hit from all sides. But his dawi were hardened, and familiar with such fighting from their near constant war beneath the surface with the urks, grobi and thaggoraki, and they would keep pushing, he knew his thanes were leading their warriors onward towards the towering form of Castle Drakenhof. "Keep fighting dawi! We'll never be worth our beards if the elgi beat us to the castle. Show them that long legs aren't what it takes to win a war!" With a warcry, his army pressed their advance, driving forward into the undead ranks, pushing with their shields and cutting with their axes. A fell enemy sorcerer was trading magical blasts with the powers of one of his runesmiths, their powers colliding above the heads of the combatants.

His forces pressed onwards, driving the enemy down the street, crushing the enemy corpses against the buildings until they were not much more than paste and dust, a hail of quarrels pin cushioned the enemy sorcerer.

In the momentary quiet a pounding of hooves on stones reached him and he turned to see a column of mannling knights coming towards them, with a force of weathered infantry following on behind, still in formation, but definitively worn from the battle outside and those in the streets. Leading them was Hans Leitdorf, the grandmaster of the Order of Sigmar's Blood had claimed many undead this day, many more would follow including, if he could arrange it, Mannfred von Carstein. "King Ungrim," he raised his sword in greeting.

"Grand Master Leitdorf," Ungrim replied, lifting his axe over his shoulder. "It's good you've made it. Shall we press on?"

Hans nodded. "Aye."

They joined their forces and marched on towards the keep, but in the very next street they encountered more undead forces. In unison, man and dwarf charged, slamming into the skeletal warriors and pushing in with axe, sword halberd and spear.

In that instant a loud low boom sounded across the embattled city. All around the streets, battalions and regiments paused in their slaughter. Mannfred von Carstein looked up at the summit of Drakenhof from where he was stalling the Elf advance and cursed. Arkhan had gathered his power and was beginning the ritual.

"No!" Hans cursed. He knew little of magic, and had been separated from his wizards in the bitter street fighting, but he knew what that meant. The ritual to restore Nagash was underway.

"No use cursing Mannling!" Ungrim called as he and his slayers carved a bloody path through a pack of ghouls that had sprung from a nearby house. "We have to keep fighting."

Hans nodded and spurred his horse forward into the enemy. In the hours they had been fighting they'd made through a good portion of the city, Castle Drakenhof loomed ahead and if they kept on fighting they could make it, they had to.

"Grand Master!" called one of his knights. The knight gestured into the air with his sword and Hans felt an inkling of relief in his bones. A dozen pegasi were rising into the air, away from the streets and even from here, Hans could see that the lead rider was wielding a sword glowing with holy light.

Duke Tancred of Quenelles was hurtling towards Drakenhof's summit, determined to stop the ritual.

 _Drakenhof's Summit_

Tancred and his knights rushed up and circled the summit, giving him a good view of what they faced, several warriors garbed in foreign and antique armour. Towards one end on a raised plinth, he saw two bound captives. One of them was a man in red and gold, Volkmar the Grim, and the other was a maiden in white and silver and gold, who could only be the Everchild the elves sought. Around them hovered some items, before them stood a large figure with regal, foreign and sorcerous robes and at that very moment, two skeletons were fastening a suit of ancient black armour to Volkmar's form.

"Descend Knights, for the Lady!" He felt the damsel grip his armour tightly from behind as they dived at the summit of the castle. Knowing that magical help would be invaluable, Tancred had retrieved Lady Annara from the battle and she accompanied him to the top of the castle.

Just before they landed, the figure who was no doubt the Liche Arkhan raised his hands and an orb of crackling dark energy rose around him, obscuring him from sight. One of his knights was able to pull up before hitting it, but the rest, including Tancred himself had set themselves on the guarding soldiers. His Pegasus trampled one of them while his holy sword cut the head off another. Lady Annara hurled a bolt of pure power, shattering another while his knights set about the others. "Give me your mount, Duke," Annara commanded him. "See to the shield, stop the ritual in the lady's name."

"In the lady's name," he whispered, dismounting. "Knights, protect me!" The knights and Annara finished off the guards and stood to protect him as Tancred approached the barrier, muttering a prayer to the lady he raised his sword, still glowing with the Lady's blessed light and brought it down. Again and again he brought down his blade, trying to carve through the fell barrier to prevent the ritual.

Aliathra looked up at the sounds coming from the outside. It was like a giant was ringing a drum on the shield, she hadn't gotten a look at those who had come to help them, but if it was Tyrion, she was safe.

" _You aren't safe,"_ Arkhan intoned as his two skeletal helpers stepped back from Volkmar the grim, now clad in the armour of Nagash. _"I have come too far and you shall both die here to bring the Great Necromancer back."_

Arkhan called his powers, with the armour on, Volkmar had become an anchor, and that was all he needed. He had already pulled the cores of the essences of Nagash's spirit from the books of Nagash and the staff, though the vast majority would remain in the items until Nagash's lost spirit had been called from Nagashizzar, where it dwelled. Soon, soon it would all be over.

Aliathra muttered a prayer to Isha that this wasn't the end, ignoring the curses that Volkmar was spitting at Arkhan. Prince Tyrion wouldn't fail her father, he wouldn't fail her mother. Then, in the swirling darkness that surrounded them, a star glowed behind Arkhan's back. A golden speck that grew until it pushed through, a sword, wreathed in golden fire, had breached the barrier. Armoured fingers pushed through as well, also glowing as they worked in tandem with the sword to pull open a gap. Her heart leap. A figure was forcing his way into the barrier, and Arkhan hadn't noticed, too engrossed in managing the ritual. She tried not to look directly at the figure in case Arkhan noticed her gaze, but she could see from the corner of her eyes that this was no elf, it was too broad, too short. This was a human, her only hope. As he worked his way inside his sword broke in half, but he was in. Arkhan head the chink of metal on stone and turned. "No!" she cried and he paused to look at her.

That was all the opportunity the knight needed, his sword lay on the ground, discarded, but fearlessly he charged, slamming into Arkhan with the force of a battering ram and tackling the liche to the ground. The knight drew no weapon but raised his fists and drove them into Arkhan's face. "Do it do it do it," she whispered, "kill him kill him kill him." But it was not to be, as the knight raised his fist for a fifth strike, Arkhan lashed out with power, catching the knight in the chest and sending him flying into the barrier, which crackled with dark power before the knight fell to the ground again.

Arkhan returned to them and, without another word he turned his attention to Nagash's staff, drawing the kernel of his soul from the item and trapping it around Volkmar, ready to pour it into the body of the Grand Theogonist.

But movement caught Aliathra's eyes, the knight was clambering to his feet, he cast aside his helm and she saw a beautiful figure, eyes glowing with familiar holy light, blonde hair falling to his shoulders neatly and readily, as though he hadn't been in a battle at all. She caught sight of the dagger at the knight's waist. No more time for caution, she focussed her gaze on the dagger and drew on her power. The knight paused as he felt the power at his waist, he looked down and drew his dagger to see it shining with Aliathra's power, it was a similar glow to that which came from the knight, but he knew what it was. He caught Aliathra's eyes and nodded his thanks.

Arkhan had caught none of this, but approached Aliathra with a dagger drawn. _"It is time,"_ he said, raising it to her throat.

But then he was caught from behind as the knight wrapped his left arm around Arkhan's throat and drove the dagger into his side. Arkhan grunted in pain from the holy weapon, pain he hadn't felt under the knight's fist. The knight drew the dagger back before plunging it back again, stabbing Arkhan again and again as he dragged the liche away from Aliathra and Volkmar. She prayed to Isha once again, begging her to aid the knight and she could hear Volkmar invoking Sigmar to do the same.

Arkhan tried to gather his power against the persistant knight, but the dagger was being blessed by the Everchild and he could feel it burning as it drove into him. Damn this mortal and his persistence. Arkhan pushed back with his feet, helping the knight who thought he was dragging Arkhan away from the ritual, but with a great push with his legs, Arkhan forced the knight into the barrier. The knight cried out in pain but held him fast and kept stabbing, but the thrusts became slower and his grip weakened and Arkhan broke free, driving a blast of dark power into the knight, crushing him against the barrier before he fell to the ground with a clatter. He was about to advance on Aliathra again when he felt the rush of power and turned. Through the gap that Tancred had cleaved in the barrier, one of Bretonnia's damsels was trying to aid her knight. Arkhan summoned a lance of dark power and hurled it at the woman, spearing Lady Annara through the chest. Beyond her he saw other Bretonnian knights being overwhelmed in their battle against armoured vampires who had come to aid his guards. Arkhan quickly sealed up the barrier, if this was Mannfred, he would interfere now. Then he approached Aliathra again and seized her by the throat, placing his dagger to her soft skin. _"Your hero has failed. Rest now."_ As he dragged the knife across her throat a blinding pain ripped through the arm holding her and his cut, meant to be quick and clean went awkward and Aliathra gasped as blood began to seep from her throat. Before he could do anything he felt another pain shoot through his chest.

Tancred had pulled himself to his feet for the third time, Lady Annara's magic protecting him from the worst of the power of the liche. He saw the liche take the fair elf by the throat and his instincts stepped in, snatching up what was left of his sword he charged, slashing at the arm of the liche as he was about to bring the knife across before driving it through the liche's torso. Before the liche could react Tancred seized him and charged forward, blade still lodged in his chest. He slammed the liche into the barrier and reached up to seize his head. He slammed Arkhan's head into the barrier with enough force to shatter any normal skull a dozen times over. But Arkhan was no simple undead.

" _Release me,"_ the liche commanded him. Tancred didn't listen and slammed the head into the barrier, determined to end the liche now, Annara was dead, the elf wounded, this was his last chance. _"So be it,"_ Arkhan said as Tancred drove his head into the barrier again and again. He reached up and seized Tancred's arms.

In an instant dark magic, more focussed than Arkhan had delivered in their previous bouts writhed around Tancred, battling the protection of the Lady before overcoming it, sinking into the joints of Tancred's plate mail and writhing around his face. Tancred had not visibly aged since he had sipped from the Grail, but now his luscious hair was turning white and brittle, his skin taking on the consistency of parchment. He kept driving Arkhan back into the barrier before, with a sigh, Tacred, Duke of Quenelles, champion of La Maisontaal Abbey and dedicated foe of the Lichemeister Heinrich Kemmler, died, flesh falling from his bones with barely a sigh as the suit of armour clattered to the stone.

Arkhan took in a breath, his chest burned in a dozen locations from the dagger and the sword he drew from him and cast aside. He approached the sacrifices. "Curse you!" Volkmar roared.

" _I already have been,"_ he replied. Aliathra was clutching at her throat, her eyes bulged with fear as blood seeped from between her fingers.

Another blow drummed on the shield. "Open up!" Came Mannfred's shriek of fury. "I command you liche, open this shield!"

" _I think not, vampire,"_ he replied. He didn't have time to make the Everchild's death cleaner. He wrapped his power around her ankles and hoisted her into the air over Volkmar, where her holy blood could rain down on him. The priest cried out in rage. _"It's all over, priest,"_ he told Volkmar. He took up the Crown of Sorcery, Nagash's most prized possession and the most important relic containing his essence and placed it on Volkmar's brow. The priest's eyes rolled back as he roars of rage turned to screams of pain. Raising his dagger still dripping with blood of the Everchild and hacked off Volkmar's hand, taking the claw of Nagash and pressing it against the stump, dark magic fusing it to the Arkhan turned towards the last item to be used in the ritual, the Fellblade. Turning his power on the weapon he made it shatter. Five essences, trapped within the Fellblade leapt free as the great green blade shattered into a million fragments. The greatest of these was Nagash's immense essence which leapt on to Volkmar's form as soon as it was free. Arkhan reached out and caught the sliver of his soul that had been trapped when he had used the blade on Finubar, drawing it back into himself and he moaned, it was like a salve placed over his burning wounds. The soul of the skaven chief who had attempted to kill Arkhan leapt free, angry, fearful and confused before it ran off wherever it went, it was no concern to Arkhan. Finubar the Seafarer lingered for a second, hovering around the swaying body of his daughter before submitting to the call of his Waystone and the rest of his soul and rushing back to his fifth soul slipped under Arkhan's notice. It was a soul that was broken and yet whole, burning with anger and yet drowning in sorrow for his lost homeland. So sorrowful was he that his soul was able to deny the call of the Underworld and he fled south, determined to see the land of his fathers, the land that had died after his children had fallen, the land for which he had given years of war and every speck of his life.

With the breaking of the Fellblade, Volkmar sat bolt upright, screaming and moaning as darkness swirled around him encasing him as the darkness took form, a form that Arkhan had seen for centuries. Rising fifteen feet tall, simultaneously black as night and transluscent enough to see the emaciating form of Volkmar in his midst, his crown on his head, his eyes glowing green and his power suppressing Arkhan and all others like the air itself had grown heavy. Arkhan's barrier shattered apart and Nagash looked over the vampires that had were trying to break through. He opened his great mouth and spoke in the harshest voice ever heard in Sylvania, "I RETURN."

For but a moment Mannfred was stunned into silence, as were all the vampires. The mortals that were outside the castle, still fighting in the streets could see the great figure on top of the castle and knew that he was terror, while those who had made it inside, including Tyrion, Hans and Ungrim, could feel his very presence weighing on them. Nagash fixed the vampires with a hard gaze and spoke again. "YOU OBEY." With a wave of his hand, Nagash usurped control of all the undead, the skeletons, zombies and their beasts, while the vampires of the Drakenhof Templars clutched their heads before they slumped. When they raised their heads to look at Nagash again, they were docile as sheep. Mannfred held out the longest, but as Arkhan looked on, the bald, ambitious vampire lost the struggle for his own control and Nagash dominated him.

This was unlike Nagash, he often left servants with their minds to use them, but Arkhan knew why he was dominating every single one of them. He was still coalescing, and right now he was vulnerable. Nagash turned his gaze to his most faithful servant. "ARKHAN, FINISH THE RITUAL."

Arkhan nodded and continued to draw Nagash's essence from the books to join the spirit that had been summoned from Nagashizzar.

But there was one vampire that did not fall under Nagash's sway. In an isolated corridor, Vlad clutched at his head, having drained the blood of several servants to renew his strength. He felt the call of Nagash coming to him through his ring. But Vlad had spent centuries making the Carstein Ring his own, and he knew Nagash's call from long ago, he was able to drive out Nagash's will. "No!" He roared. Racing onwards, now that he was strengthened and rearmed, thanks to Mannfred leaving his arms in his prison, Nagash could not be reborn so quickly, the other vampires wouldn't bow if they had their will back, and the armies of the living still fought, he had to move to stop this.

Arkhan could feel the undead moving, whole shambling regiments pulling away from the battle in the streets and racing back for the castle. Victory in battle was nothing to Nagash right now, Arkhan knew, only his own survival mattered, and the living were coming to end him.

Ungrim cut through the wall of undead with abandon, his warriors by his side. A wall was the best way to describe them, they weren't even trying to fight back, just prevent them from moving on. While he would like nothing better than to carve his way through them, speed was of the essence here. "Dawi, pull back, ten paces." Though they shared their king's bloodlust, the disciplined dwarfs backpedalled, shield wall tight, the undead didn't move to follow them. "Bring up the Irondrakes!" he roared.

Three irondrakes, all that could fit abreast in the corridor brought their weapons forward and, with a rush of heat, sent fire into the undead wall, melting flesh and bone, leaving the air smelling of singed clothes and hair and barbeque. "Push forward!"

Elsewhere Tyrion and Hans led their own men forwards, carving through the stagnant undead shield walls and ascending, each force had wizards (or runesmiths) who could lead them to the unmissable beacon that was Nagash.

Tyrion was the first to break out onto the wide summit of Drakenhof, and even in his battle experience, his anger and rage, he had to pause to take stock when he saw the Great Necromancer looming over them all. When Nagash looked at him, Tyrion felt a great chill flood through him. But then he saw something that made him run awash with heat. Aliathra, his daughter, was hanging upside down beside Nagash, dripping blood from a slit throat. "Monsters!" He roared and charged. As one, the Drakenhof Templars and Mannfred raised their blades and moved to meet the High Elf attack. Though they lacked the skills they would have had if they'd retained their minds, they were still vampires, and Nagash's power flooded through them, keeping them fighting. "YOU HAVE FAILED, ELF," Nagash called. "I HAVE RETURNED."

"Not yet!" Tyrion heard Belannaer call, the mage was straining as he called upon his own magical prowess. "He's not back yet! Keep fighting, we can still prevent this!"

Vlad finally reached a window of Drakenhof. If the sounds ringing through the corridors were any indicator, the battle had reached the castle itself. The corridors and stairwells were no longer safe for him, the living would see him as just another vampire and he would be set upon. With a great kick he shattered the window and stepped out onto the ledge. He felt the wind lapping at him, but it wasn't enough to unfoot one of Vlad's power. He reached out with his powers, feeling for the monsters that he knew were present. There, he had one, a Vargheist, part of a swarm flying to aid Nagash on the summit. He couldn't take the entire swarm from the Necromancer, but just one, that he could manage. Nagash's will was great, but he was distracted by thoughts of his own survival and greatness, one Vargheist was beneath his notice. So Vlad was able to direct the Vargheist, one of his brutal and bestial kin, to come to him.

The beast broke from his pack and came rushing over, tough leathery wings cutting through the wind that whipped around Drakenhof's keep. Vlad leapt off as his lost kin flew underneath him and landed between two of the spines that trailed down its back. He clutched one of them tightly and pulled on it. "Up," he said and the beast turned to the skies, rejoining its fellow and tearing for Drakenhof's summit, where he could see the towering form of shadowy Nagash looming over all the land. They swept up and as they rose over the top of the tower, Vlad could see the scene on the top, the greatest of the mortal warrior battling dominated vampires. And there was Arkhan, standing before the Great Necromancer, ever his most faithful servant. He could feel the power that was being drawn from the artefact and books surrounding the necromancer. Arkhan was drawing his essence together, and that was how he could be stopped, those prisons had to be broken open. Vlad leapt off the Vargheist's back and dived for the castle. At the last moment he slashed and Blood Drinker sundered the great staff of Nagash in two. There were few weapons that could harm Alakanash, but the staff of Nagash was weakened by the ritual and the drawing forth of Nagash's spirit from within it, and in that state, Blood Drinker split it like wheat before a scythe.

Nagash roared in pain as his staff was sundered and the undead under his command shuddered. Vlad rolled with his landing and sprung forward, slashing through one of the Books of Nagash and didn't wait charging forward. This next book seemed to retreat, but not fast enough as Blood Drinker punched through the pages of flesh and with an upward flick he cut it in two and dropped to the floor.

" _No!"_ Vlad turned and raised his sword to catch Arkhan's blade as he tried to stop him. They locked steel for a moment where he could feel recognition dawning on Arkhan. _"Vashanesh?"_

"My name is Vlad, Arkhan, and I will not allow this." He pushed back and attacked him. Arkhan was a powerful sorcerer, but Vlad had always been his superior at swordcraft and he attacked, driving Arkhan back towards another of Nagash's floating books. "TRAITOR," Nagash called to him. "KILL HIM ARKHAN." Arkhan's blows and parries came faster and harder, it was a subtle difference, but a swordsman of Vlad's level could feel it. Nagash was sending power into his servant, and a throbbing hum burned behind his temples, Nagash was trying to dominate him. But Nagash would always be first to Nagash, and mortal spellcasters were starting to attack Nagash personally.

Seeing his chance, Vlad dived to the side, cutting through yet another of Nagash's books, sending another shockwave through the dominated undead, but once more, Nagash reasserted control as more power trickled into him from the objects that remained. But something else was taking some of the power, another was being empowered by the darkness and the power of death around them. It was almost imperceptible against the vast draw of Nagash's power, and Arkhan, so drawn to that, probably hadn't noticed.

He leapt back from Arkhan to take a pause and Arkhan moved the remaining books to hover behind him. Vlad glanced up to see what was happening to the power, and caught sight of the elf, hanging as though strung up by her feet, a messy cut across her throat. But a faint glowing green light hovered around the cut, stitching it slowly back together. The elf hadn't died and, perhaps instinctively, was trying to heal herself, drawing on the surrounding powers of darkness to assist her. That was stymieing Nagash's return, the sacrifice hadn't been properly sacrificed.

He charged again, if Arkhan noticed he or Nagash would finish the job.

Even so, even with Vlad attacking Arkhan, even with Tyrion, Ungrim and Hans pushing against the armoured vampires and the wizards casting what spells they could at Nagash, anything and everything to harm him, Nagash, while being weakened, was very much strong, and all the undead in the city were converging on Drakenhof to save protect the death lord.

All but one.

A swarm of scarabs carrying a princely skull was scaling the wall of Drakenhof. Apophas had been filled with fear when Nagash had been coalesced, not fear of Nagash, but fear of Settra's wrath that he had not been fast enough crossing the badlands of the greenskins or the embattled human realms, he had failed to kill Arkhan the Black in time.

But now he felt only determination, and hope. Had Nagash not slain his family to take the throne, as he had, had he not provoked the wrath of the gods and the other kings as he had? Nagash himself had committed the same crimes as he, his soul was tainted in the same way, and it was he that would pay of Apophas' debt to Usirian once and for all.

He reformed himself behind the Great Necromancer and plunged the dagger he had used to murder his family into Nagash's back. Ordinarily such a blow against one such as Nagash would be like cutting down a tree with a feather, but in his middling state, Nagash roared in pain and his concentration slipped again, giving Vlad the chance to cut through another of Nagash's books, further weakening him as Apophas' scarab body began swarming around the necromancer.

Belannaer saw Nagash cry out summoned more powers. "Press the attack!" He ordered and every wizard gave their all, summoning the winds of magic to blast the necromancer.

As Nagash fought to throw off Apophas his power stopped imbuing Arkhan who fell back under Vlad's relentless assault, allowing the progenitor of the von Carstein bloodline to destroy two more books of Nagash.

It was too much at once for the weakened Nagash and Apophas, slowly but surely, began dragging Nagash down.

"NO, RELEASE ME, I COMMAND IT!" He roared. Nagash's form started peeling from the emaciated corpse of Volkmar the Grim.

Vlad seized his chance and charged, cleaving the claw of Nagash from his arm. The metal appendage fell to the ground and before it could vanish, Vlad brought Blood Drinker down on it. Arkhan reached out, trying to save it, but was too slow, he cried out a lament as Vlad pierced the claw and it sundered apart.

That was the last blow. What was left of Nagash was pulled from Volkmar by Apophas and dragged down through the stone of the castle. Like a vengeful god he roared and rages, shattering statues with his hands and shaking the very sky with his anger, but there was no stopping it now. He reached for the sky desperately but when the last hand slipped below the stone a great boom sounded and every single combatant, living or dead, was thrown to their feet in a great flash of darkness.

" _No,"_ Arkhan croaked, curling up into a ball pathetically. Everything he had worked for, for centuries, millennia, gone. Nagash's resurrection had failed he would have to- wait. He couldn't feel it, the call that had been guiding him, commanding him. He couldn't hear the call of Nagash.

 _The Underworld_

In another plane of existence, Nagash stood over a sea of souls. The Underworld was a cheerless place, the souls stretching from horizon to horizon, a great sea of them, swirling, writhing, waiting to see if they would be sent to paradise or to eternal damnation. But Nagash was no simple being. He may have been weakened on the mortal plane, but his coalesced and united form had been dragged down to the Underworld, and he stood like a colossus, a giant towering over the sea of souls. His anger had been great, but his power was his own, and he would take the power of this plane, consume every soul here, and then return for what was his. He reached down into the sea and plucked a great handful of souls, consuming them and supping on their power, gorging on it. But as he reached down for another handful, another colossus caught his eye from the far horizon, a being as great and terrible as he was, a being that had patrolled this plane since the beginning of time. Usirian, the faceless god of the Nehekharan underworld was striding towards Nagash. Nagash turned to face him. The gods of Nehekhara had been weakened for millennia by the rise of the chaos god, and Nagash was the greatest master of death to have been created on the mortal plane. They faced each other, for both knew that there could only be one god of the Underworld.

The battle between the god and his would be usurper shook the entire underworld to its very core. Their fists struck like volcanoes and their cries of battle would shrivel nations. Whenever Usirian took the upper hand, Nagash dived into the sea of souls, maw opened and drank to heal himself, and whenever Nagash came close to felling Usirian, the lord of the Underworld called upon the souls of the fallen to restrain Nagash while he recovered and struck again. On and on they fought and soon armies fought on both sides, Nagash forcing souls of the Underworld to strike at Usirian while Usirian called upon them for aid against the perverter of death.

But slowly, Nagash began to take the upper hand over Usirian, dominating more and more souls and growing powerful on consuming them, were he to take them all, not even the combined power of the Chaos gods would be able to stop him. Usirian cried out for aid as he fought to remain alive, but what was the idea of death to a god?

Then Nagash struck with a great blow that reverberated through the Underworld and, as the faceless god staggered, he wrapped his hands around Usirian's throat. He opened his mouth to consume Usirian as well and achieve dominance here. A great flash of light burst through the underworld, and Nagash staggered back, roaring in pain as his hands were severed at the wrists.

As Usirian recovered Nagash looked up and used his arm to shield himself from a burning light descending into the underworld. Out of the light burst several great forms: Two snakes – an asp and a cobra, a dog, a scorpion, a blue feathered hawk, an ibis and a vulture and within the light was a figure of a man. Usirian's cries for aid had been answered, the Nehekharan pantheon had come to punish Nagash.

" **You have gone too far,"** boomed the voice of Ptra, the human encased in light. **"You have harmed our world, sought to dominate our people, and now sought to destroy one of us. No longer, Nagash son of Khetep, brother of Thutep."**

" **You have been judged,"** hissed the asp. Asaph, the goddess of beauty.

" **You have been found guilty,"** added the hawk. Phakth, god of justice.

" **And you will be punished,"** finished the jackal. Djaf, the god of death.

"I WILL NOT END HERE!" roared Nagash defiantly. He had faced Ptra's angels on the mortal plane and defeated them, made them his own and laughed at the god's impotent rage, but here it was Nagash that was impotent, and when they all struck, he was cast low.

Ptra stepped forth and began extracting Nagash's powers, taking the lion's share for himself before spreading it out, empowering the other gods of Nehekhara as well. In the millennia since the rise of chaos their powers had been curtailed and the power of such a great being re-energised them. **"With your power, we will protect Nehekhara and our people,"** Ptra entoned. Nagash had shrunken as his powers had been leached from him. **"No longer will we be helpless against the forces of Chaos. And you will be nothing."**

Nagash looked up in terror as Usirian stepped forward. He reached down and clutched Nagash tightly in one hand. If Nagash remembered how, he would have pleaded for his life, for his soul, but he did not, and Usirian cast him into the pit of eternal damnation.

" **It is done,"** Ptra declared.

Usirian nodded. **"It is."**

" **The one who finally brought him low must be rewarded,"** Ptra declared, knowing full well that Usirian could be vindictive and cruel with his souls. **"See that they are,"** He could feel his new power and knew he had to return to defend Nehekhara.

Usirian nodded and the rest of Nehekhara's pantheon departed Usirian' domain, leaving him as the sole master of the Underworld once again. When he was alone he reached down into the sea of souls and retrieved that of Apophas, whom Nagash had shaken off when he had arrived in the Underworld. He considered Ptra's decree and that a part of Nagash's immense power was now his, and sent the Scarab Prince onward, his debt to the faceless god repaid. When that was done, he returned to his patrol.

On the mortal plane, the fall of Nagash was felt across the globe. The Chaos gods were gleeful at the fact that one of the few who had the power to stand against them was now gone forever. In Khemri, Settra watched as the Black Pyramid of Nagash crumbled and fell apart before his eyes. Heinrich Kemmler felt him fall and chuckled with pleasure. In the Silver Spire, Neferatta, the first vampire took a gasp of air as though a great pressure had been lifted from her, and in her heart she knew that Nagash, the man she had once worshiped and then grown to hate, would never be seen again. In Sylvania, those so recently under Nagash's thrall breathed in relief and clutched their heads as both the living and the dead recovered, from the fall of the Great Necromancer. And all across the world, the undead, who all instinctively heard the call of the Great Necromancer were left with a sense of weightlessness as their destinies were no longer bound to his will.

 _Castle Drakenhof_

On top of Drakenhof, Hans staggered to his feet. What had happened? Where was Nagash? The vampires were also getting to their feet, dazed and confused and looking at the living unsure of whether the battle was still taking place. His grip tightened on his sword as his knights gathered to him again, but before battle could begin, an angry shriek rent the air. "Where is he!" Mannfred roared, storming around where Nagash had been. "Where is Arkhan the Black, where is the liche!" He turned to his vampires. "Spread out. Find him, that bastard must _not_ escape!"

The vampires looked at the living unsure, would they be allowed to move on. "Don't let them pass," Hans declared, stepping forward, sword raised. "This is our chance to end them!"

"End us if you will," said another vampire, a different one, a woman with red hair and the usual pale complexion of the vampires. "But we will fight, and Arkhan the Black is the architect of all of this. If he is allowed to escape, he will try again, and next time in secret."

"A truce," Mannfred said, holding up his hands, his anger fading a little, but still burning under the surface. "Until Arkhan the Black is found and brought back here."

"Aliathra!" Tyrion roared, shoving past to where the Everchild lay, spread eagled across the corpse of Volkmar the grim. He cradled her to his chest, touching her cheek softly. He bent his head down to her lips. "She's alive!" He gasped. Belannaer, the High Elf mages and Wood Elf Spellsingers rushed over.

"Arkhan the Black is the one who nearly killed her," Mannfred said, stepping away. "And every moment we wait is one that he uses to get away."

Tyrion looked up at him in rage, but Belannaer placed his hand on Tyrion's shoulder. "We'll watch over the Everchild," he promised.

Ungrim didn't like it, making any kind of peace with the undead was ill, but it would give his dawi time to reorganise for the next push, or to retreat if needed. "If we're to hunt this Arkhan," he growled, shouldering the Axe of Dargo, "then let's begin." He touched Hans' arm. "We can dispense with them when we've found the other one."

Hans didn't like it, but knew that he was once more outvoted. "Very well."

The living and the dead descended at arms length before scattering to find Arkhan the Black.

In his former prison cell, Vlad dumped the weakened form of Arkhan on the cold stone tiles besides the body of Ghorst. They would serve him now. "It's over, Arkhan," he told him.

" _Nagash,"_ he croaked. All undead felt his call, but Arkhan had been unable to work against bringing Nagash back, now that he'd failed so utterly... Vlad couldn't imagine what that was like for him.

"He's gone, Arkhan. You will never see him again."

Arkhan looked up at him before pulling himself to his knees. _"Then we are all doomed, Nagash was our only hope!"_

"Nagash is not hope, he is horror," Vlad replied.

" _Against what is coming, that horror was our only chance."_

Vlad stepped back. "What is coming?"

" _Chaos,"_ Arkhan replied simply. _"The Chaos Gods are descending on the world, and without Nagash, no one has the power to stop them."_

So, chaos had come again, that was noteworthy, but they'd been beaten before and they could be again, without Nagash. "They'll be defeated, you can be certain of that. Even if you will play no part in it."

Arkhan looked up at him and nodded. _"Very well, Vashanesh. The world is in your hands now. End this."_

Vlad nodded and extended his hands. He would have to thank Mannfred for showing him how to bring vampires back from the dead. It had been done to him and now he would do it for another. It would normally take days of preparation, but the wounds from the battle and the exertion of the ritual left Arkhan weakened, and so Vlad extended his hands and started to rip the immortality from him, finally ending the existence of Arkhan the Black.

Back on the summit the living and dead reconvened, they had searched the castle and found no trace of the Liche. "We must scour the city then, the entire province!" Mannfred roared. "He cannot escape."

"If he's not here, then we have other business to settle," Hans declared, stepping forward, hand on his sword.

"Save this mortal, I will gladly duel you once the liche has been found."

"And what if I say now!" Tyrion demanded. "The Everchild's wounding is as much your fault as the liche's."

"Arkhan the Black is dead," came a voice from the stairs. They all turned as an unmistakeable figure emerged, wearing an unmistakeable ring. The knights of the Empire stepped back and the Vampires froze in wonder as Vlad von Carstein walked amongst them once more. "And Nagash is banished forever, we will never see either of them again."

"Vlad?" Asked Erikan Crowfiend, one of the Drakenhof Templars.

Vlad nodded to the Breton he had granted the Blood Kiss. "Erikan. Yes. I have returned, and I am here for what is mine." Slowly, Vlad turned to face Mannfred.

Mannfred cursed. How had he broken free? Had he helped bring Nagash to doom, and taken the liche? "You aren't Vlad," he snarled. "You're an imposter!"

Vlad walked towards Mannfred with the confidence of centuries. "I assure you, boy, I am real, as is my intent to resume command of Sylvania."

"You aren't."

"He is." Another figure stepped from stairs, also clad in red armour, with vibrant blonde hair that flowed down her back and beautiful pale skin. Her features were fair and powerful and she radiated a cold nobility. "He is the first and greatest of all vampires here, the rightful lord and master of Sylvania, Vlad von Carstein, my lord and husband," declared Isabella.

"My lady!" Elize gasped, her usual reserved nature dissipating before her mistress.

"Elize," Isabella replied. She approached Vlad and took his hand in hers, ignoring the mortal soldiers as one would ants. "You will all bow before your rightful lord," she declared to the assembled vampires. Several dropped to their knees at once, including Elize and Erikan, and one by one, so did the others until all the vampires present were bowing. All except Mannfred, who looked around at all his former subjects rejecting him for the man he hated and loved more than any other.

"I will not bow," he snarled at Vlad, pointing his sword at his sire. "Not to you, not again!"

"Good," Vlad replied. He released Isabella's hand and stepped forward. "You've done enough, boy," he said and raised both hands.

With a great rush, a massive blast of power surged at Mannfred, the air crackling with the heat of it. Mannfred raised a shield to block it, but it wasn't enough. Normally Mannfred was at least as skilled, possibly more skilled than Vlad at the magical arts, but after such a battle and recovering from the effects of Nagash's domination, Mannfred could barely hold Vlad's stream of magic at bay. Vlad drew from the power of the darkness of Sylvania, and sent it pouring at Mannfred. He would not hold back, Mannfred had to be punished for what he'd done, and he wanted revenge. He kept up the stream of power. "My lord, the sky!" One of his blood children cried, but he paid them no heed as he drew more power from the pall of darkness swallowing Sylvania.

As he continued his assault, spears of light began to pierce the sky, several of his vampires scurried back for fear of it hitting them. With a great roar he ripped the power of darkness and condensed it into a single great blast that caught Mannfred in the chest sending him flying over the edge of Drakenhof. Fifty metres from the wall it exploded in a great orb of destruction that engulfed Mannfred's form as he screamed and spat curses at the world. With a bang the orb exploded and Mannfred was gone.

Vlad turned back to his kin who were looking at their bodies in amazement. Exposed to the bright sun they should be burning, but nothing was happening. "What... what's happened?" Elize breathed in amazement.

Isabella took her handmaiden under the chin gently. "It was the curse of Nagash that made us burn in the sun, and now Nagash is dead," she explained. "We are free of him forever now."

Vlad turned to them all, looking down on everyone there, already the Lord of Drakenhof once again. "And now we must turn our attention to another matter." He stepped forward, approaching the leaders of the mortal host.

"This matter is now settled, Mannfred and Arkhan are dead, Nagash is gone, and your Everchild is alive and recovered. There is no need to continue this further. Retreat your hosts."

"Or we could end this foul place once and for all!" Hans snarled, and the Slayer King nodded.

Vlad knew he had to be careful, Sylvania was weakened and to spark the ire of these three powers now would be the end of it. "You could try, but we would fight you every inch, we would raise your own dead against you as well. And this other matter of which I speak requires all of our attentions, and all of our armies. I promise you this, agree to leave, and none of your men will be raised against you, you may recover them without challenge and leave Sylvania unharmed."

Hans snarled, but Vlad's offer was not unreasonable. Ungrim knew he had suffered the least of the mortal host, but many good Dawi were slain. The Crusader army, already battered by the first invasion had been cut in half again, and the Elves had suffered similarly. Almost all of the Bretonnian column was dead, the last few, led by a Grail Knight called Jerrod, the heir of Duke Tancred had gathered their leader's body from the roof. And the Wood Elves, who knew how many losses they had suffered, but those that were visible were short on arrows and there were likely fewer of them as well.

"But before you leave," Vlad said, holding up a hand. "You're going to tell me everything you know about this invasion from the north."


	13. 1-13

Despite nearly three weeks of war, the imperial armies were no less disciplined than they were at the beginning. After the victory at Lubrect the momentum of the Chaos vanguard had been slowed. Aldebrand had stuck out to the south and lifted several sieges, while Franz pushed on towards the border with the Kislevite forces in tow, the Tzarina and her warriors eager for vengeance. The town of Lubrecht, in appreciation of the Tzarina's help, had opened their town to the refugees, leaving the soldiers free to join in the war. He had defeated several smaller warbands with minimal losses and the war seemed to be progressing well. General Otto had even voiced launching a counter invasion of Kislev before winter came, to destroy Chaos forward encampments and damage them before the next year, but Franz knew better than to overextend themselves. Surprisingly, it was the Tzarina who objected most vocally to the counter invasion. Katarin had taken her place on the war councils, and her advise was appreciated, but her words made the mood turn frosty. "The forces we have defeated so far are nothing," she said, sorrow written on her features as she remembered the invasion of her own homeland. "The army that put me to siege at Erengrad was ten times the size of all those we have fought combined, and the horde that took Praag dwarfed that many times over, we have barely scratched the surface of what strength the enemy can bring to bear against us."

Franz hoped that he would never have to be in Katarin's situation, an Emperor without an Empire. Kislevite scouts rode out in every direction every day, desperate to find more refugees from their nation, but most came back alone.

"Ten times or a hundred times make no difference, we'll destroy them all as they come," Thorgrim declared. The dwarfs had been greatly disgruntled at missing out on the first battle of the war, but they had more than made up for it since.

Still the numbers the enemy could bring to bear were troubling, soon they would once again be fighting armies that vastly outnumbered his own, even with the combined might of the Empire directed to the northern border. "What about Gelt?" He asked the priests that the Supreme Patriarch had sent ahead, "will he be here soon?"

"He flies as fast as he can," the shaven headed priest assured him. "With all the strength the colleges of magic can bring with them."

Franz nodded, looking at Teclis, wondering what the elven prince had to say about the magic of the Empire, but he looked weary, worn, like he hadn't slept and was using his staff to keep himself upright. "Are you well, prince Teclis?"

Teclis nodded. "I am, it's just... the wind of death. Shyish. It's been behaving erratically, swirling like a tempest before hurtling south then dissipating again. Such behaviour is to be expected of the wind of beasts, but not death, death is stagnant, utterly peaceful."

"What do you think it is?"

Teclis looked at them. "I think that whatever happened in Sylvania has come to a head, for good or ill."

They shared glances. "Good or ill," the Tzarina asked. "You have some idea which?"

"Good surely," Franz replied. "If it were ill surely we'd know by now? The return of a being such as Nagash cannot be easily hidden."

"Ungrim would have put a stop to it," Thogrim declared easily. "And if he didn't... well, there's nothing we can do about it now. We must focus on the enemy standing before us."

As murmurs of consent went around the table, a scout arrived. "Sire," he knelt, haggard and worn, his clothes faded. "Another army approaches the border. A great horde, one that dwarfs the host we defeated outside Lubrecht."

"How much larger?"

"More than twice as large."

Franz nodded. Even with their gathered forces, they were vastly outnumbered with those numbers. "How close to the border are they?"

"We can get there before them if we move with purpose now."

Franz looked around. "Sire, we cannot let another horde tear across the Empire unchallenged," Valmir von Raukov.

 _Across your lands you mean,_ Franz thought, but it was his land as well, and Raukov made a good point, these were his people and his land, and he owed it to them to protect them from the ravages of Chaos. "I agree. Ready the armies. With luck, Gelt and the others will join us in time."

 _Lubrecht – Ostland_

"One hour, ready yourselves," Gelt told his assembled wizards.

"The pegasi need more than an hour," Gregor Maartak, Patriarch of Beasts insisted. Gelt waited. "Supreme Patriarch," Maartak finished.

Normally Gelt didn't bother to insist on such formalities, but right now he needed the obedience of the other colleges. The others were all scheming to supplant him, he knew, Thyrus Gormann wanted his seat back after Gelt had won it from him, and the others all had eyes on the position of Patriarch as well. But now was not the time for politicking or opportunities to take his place, the Empire needed him at the head of the Colleges, not some insipid White Wizard, not fiery headed Gormann or the recluse Maartak. Him! He could stop what was to come. He had the means. "An hour is all we have," Gelt insisted. "I have spoken to the Kislevites and Imperials in the town, the Emperor has marched onwards to confront the enemy, but the Kislevites remember the numbers of enemies that came upon them. The Emperor needs us, the Empire needs us and we will not tarry any longer. Amber and Jade wizards will sustain the mounts if needed but we must reach the border."

He was ready to save the Empire and he had done all he had to to make the situation ready. His power was needed, but it alone was not enough, he had been forced to call upon the aid of the Cult of Sigmar.

Normally he kept out of the affairs of priests, if they were involved they shackled what they would let you get away with and they wielded considerable influence. He had always trod lightly around Volkmar where possible, but now there was no other choice, he needed them. But just as he needed them, they were divided. Most believed that Volkmar was dead, he likely was, but they were already angling to succeed him and none could muster the number of priests he needed without weakening their own potential succession as Grand Theogonist. But there were benefits to being the Patriarch of the Gold Order, not even a priest was out from under the sway of gold, and so Gelt had plied his talents and spread word that he was reaching out to the Ar-Ulric Emil Vangeir in Middenheim to assist him with the defence of the Empire. The threat of the Cult of Ulric rising in prominence was enough to provoke Arch Lector Kaslain, the most likely candidate for the succession to organise a large number of battle-priests and lectors to assist him. Most travelled afoot or mounted and so had gone on ahead, the fastest and those closest to the Emperor had gone on ahead already and were now only awaiting his arrival. He had to get there in time to save the Empire or all his work was for nothing.

 _The Ostland-Kislev border_

"Where is Gelt, we need him!" Roared Franz, letting the body of another Chaos champion fall before him.

The battle had started well enough. His army arrayed in a wide formation to meet the enemy. Kurt took the right flank, anchored on a small cluster of farm buildings filled with free company militiamen and swordsmen making it a bloody and slow affair for the enemy to get through them. His front lines of halberdiers were tearing bloody chunks from the enemy that charged into their jaws, and the buildings were protecting their flanks from encirclement. He knew he could leave it to Helborg to hold the flank without his oversight.

The centre had been the most successful of his fronts. High King Thorgrim and his armoured warriors locking shields and holding against every charge and swarm, the High King himself striking down with his axe, roaring out grudges from the Great Book of Grudges set before him. "For the burning of Kraka Drak, a thousand barbarian heads!" The King's hammerer bodyguard had slammed into a cadre of armoured warriors surrounding an enemy champion, smashing their armour asunder, powdering their bones with Thorgrim taking the champion's head himself. In the interlude, when the enemy reeled back they reformed their line and held. Behind the front line of warriors were the quarrellers and thunderers who unleashed death on the enemy, the Thunderers turning their eerily accurate handguns upon the enemy monsters, felling trolls, giants and other large beasts while quarrels found their home in the bared chests of barbarian warriors. Behind them were the High King's artillery, blasting out death and destruction.

On his left was Valmir von Raukov, the elector of Ostland holding firm, supported by Ludwig Schwartzhelm and a full half of the Reiksguard knights. Indeed Franz had massed most of his cavalry on the left, where there was nothing to anchor his flank and it was left exposed and open. Ludwig would make sure that the enemy didn't turn it, and if he wasn't enough, Gelt's warrior priests and Prince Teclis were present to help them.

In the rear were his great machines of war and reserve forces ready to bolster his front line. The Kislev forces were also here, protecting their Queen as Katarin sought to bring the blizzards of Kislev on the enemy from behind, the ice shards and biting winds were shredding enemy rearguard forces, but it would require constant supervision to keep the blizzards from destroying their own forces and leaving the Empire exposed. Franz had set his best captains and champions to slaying as many enemy champions they could find, tearing them apart at range or engaging them in combat. Franz had taken to the effort himself and it seemed to be all that could hold back the tide of the enemy. But if they could keep it up until Katarin could bring the blizzard back, or Gelt could come.

Pulling up on his reins, Deathclaw soared into the air, his cries filling his soldiers with hope and his enemies with terror.

He needed to pull back, know where reserves were needed or where he needed to personally intervene. He pulled Deathclaw back towards the Kislevites and the Tzarina. "Emperor Franz!" Her commander Vladmir called.

"What is it?" He landed next to them.

Vladmir looked back at the Tzarina who was swaying dangerously. "The Tzarina is tiring, she can't maintain the blizzard."

Franz cursed. As he looked over the wizard he could see that the cold winds were thinner than they had been. The weeks of war, the destruction of her country had all taken their toll on the Tzarina. "I... can't..." she gasped and fell to the ground, catching herself roughly. With horror the blizzard began to fail.

"No!"

Shadows passed overhead and he looked up. Pegasi, dozens of them, and one he recognised. Quicksilver. Gelt had arrived.

"My Emperor!" The Supreme Patriarch descended and landed heavily next to him.

"You've arrived," he noted, not able to help the anger that he hadn't arrived sooner.

Gelt nodded. "My apologies, my Emperor, but all is ready." He made ready to take to the air once again.

"Where are you going?"

Gelt paused and looked at him. "To save the Empire." Without another word he lifted into the air and at a signal from his staff, the circling wizards fell into formation and charged towards the battle.

A battle wizard could have a great effect on a battle, but so many at once, and several of the Patriarchs together, their effect was instantaneous. Green wisps rose amongst his army as the Jade Wizards worked their spells of restoration, knitting together wounds and restoring the stamina of those who had been fighting for hours. Great lances of fire punched into the enemy ranks from the bright wizards, while the white wizards pinned them in place and held them down while shielding the army from the worst of the enemy spells. Franz saw Thyrus Gormann, the former Supreme Patriarch hurl a skull from atop his mount, when it landed amidst the enemy it burst aflame and grew to twenty feet tall, racing along the enemy line, biting like a rabid dog, gorging itself on the enemy army. Every order was plying it's trade, Gold Wizards were reinforcing their armour and weighing down the enemy, turning their blades to rust.

As one the army pushed their attack. The horde of warriors, worn out from the fighting, was unable to resist the magical onslaught and the resurgent Imperial-Dwarfen army and was broken, turning and fleeing back towards the thinning blizzard to the roaring cheers of the Empire's soldiers.

Thankfully imperial discipline held them back from pursuing. He turned to Katarin. "Rest, Lady Katarin, we're safe for now."

"N-no," she whispered. "Something... something comes..." She slumped into unconsciousness and the last vestiges of the blizzard fell, and with it all the hope that had just returned to the imperial army.

A great horde was approaching. Where the horde just beaten had dwarfed the first at least four times over, this new one dwarfed it by a further ten times. If that army reached them, they would be swallowed whole and all his talents, all the magics they possessed would not stop them.

But one figure was not frozen by fear. Gelt charged forwards on Quicksilver, like a madman he seemed like he was trying to take the entire host head on.

"What is he doing?" Franz demanded. He made to move and stop Gelt's madness, they would need every ounce of their power if they were to have a chance.

"Don't sire!" Cried another voice and he turned to see a Gold wizard holding out a hand to stop him. "The Supreme Patriarch means to save us, you must let him!"

He still started forwards to the army to see what was happening. Gelt had landed a mile ahead of them and dismounted. "What is he doing?" He wondered out loud as Gelt planted the Staff of Volans into the ground and spread his arms wide as though extolling a deity to help him, but Franz knew that Gelt was sceptical at best. Then the air itself began to crackle and snap like a thousand whips.

"The Wind of Chamon," Teclis grunted having come up to him. "He's calling upon the wind of metal... so much of it."

"How can he?" Franz had fought beside Gelt before but never seen him like this before.

"Likely that is why he needed my scroll."

He looked at the elf who was studying Gelt's distant figure with interest that would imply that they weren't facing a great horde determined to end them and all they stood for.

"What's he doing?"

Teclis shook his head. "I don't know."

The army murmured and gasped as Gelt began to hover in the air, his arms tensing and body shaking. "It's too much for a human," Teclis grunted.

Then with a great roar that was hurled along the Wind of Chamon, Gelt slammed into the ground, driving all his power into the very earth itself before it consumed him utterly.

"No," Franz whispered.

"Wait," Teclis said, taking his arm. "Something is coming."

With a great crack the earth itself split apart just in front of the Supreme Patriarch, a chasm opening and out of it rose a great wall of metal and earth, shooting into the sky faster than any arrow could match. Franz turned and looked to the left and right. All along the border of the Empire the great wall was rising, high, tall and proud, shooting into the skies themselves, splitting clouds and scattering flocks of birds. Even though he wasn't attuned to it, Franz could feel the magic radiating from the wall.

And so Gelt's great wall spread across the border with what was once Kislev, stretching from the World's Edge Mountains in the east, where it punched deep into the stone so that one couldn't go around. It stretched to the north and west where it shot out far into the Sea of Claws.

Fran turned as a great number of wizards and priests stepped forward. As one they chanted, the wizards channelling their power and the priests, their faith. The great grey metal wall began to glow with a holy light that was repellent to the followers of the Dark Powers.

And so it was that the Auric Bastion was raised, the greatest magical barrier ever created from the time of the Old Ones to the dark times that fell upon the world; so high that mo winged beast could hope to fly over it and so deep that no tunneling creature could hope to tunnel under it, and as long as the people of the Empire keep their faith in it, it will endure forever.

* * *

A/N: And so there's the end of part one guys. Nagash is gone forever and the Auric Bastion has been raised. Will it be enough? and what of the other powers? What part do they to play in this retelling? We'll see.


	14. 2-1

_...As the Three Eyed King marches south three heroes will emerge to hinder him and his dark masters. A long sleeping queen, from a cradle of stone and steel, awakened by death. A king long dead, fuelled by rage and sorrow, restored by the gods of sand and sun. A boy newly found, blessed by two gods to take up arms against the Everchosen in battle beneath fire and thunder..._

Prophesy of the End Times

 _The land that was once Kislev_

A dozen severed heads stuck at odd angles on pikes in front of the Three Eyed King, each of them belonging to a sorcerer who had told Archaon that they could tear down the cursed wall of faith that had been erected across the Empire's border. He sat brooding for days on end, staring at the wall that shot into the clouds like a great grey shield, not uttering a word to his subordinates, all of them feared to approach him and instead turned themselves to other pursuits, Sigvald had set himself upon the remaining people of Kislev with abandon and Doctor Festus was brewing his foul concoctions. Perhaps the champions of Khorne would have dared to stand before the Everchosen and his rage, but Valkia was pursuing a campaign against the Druchii and the other servants were collecting skulls for their patron.

There were another three heads to the side of Archaon, others who had failed him. One belonged to a Skaven warchief who had promised that he would bring great devices that would tear down the wall. They had utterly malfunctioned, exploding in great green flashes when they arrived. Archaon had calmly summoned the Swords of Chaos, convinced one of the surviving ratmen to tell him where the Clan's lair was, and then butchered every single one of them, returning with the head of the creature that had promised him and then failed him. The next was the warlord he had left in charge of protecting the navy that had been stationed in Erengrad since the city's fall. It was not nearly enough to transport his vast hordes around the bastion, but they could have landed armies in the Empire's heartlands. The norscans still had ships in their homeland, but thousands had been destroyed when an imperial fleet, together with a high elf patrol ship had attacked them in harbour. With them was the Ice Queen of Kislev who had her revenge, turning the bay to ice and summoning great ice spears from beneath to spear the longships like meat on a skewer, while cannons and fire breath from the imperial and high elf ships reduced more to splinters and ash. The last was a trophy of his, the last Boyar of Kislev, who had attempted to resist his advance. He had fought valiantly, if fruitlessly, and Archaon had done him the honour of allowing him single combat. He forbade the Boyar's body to be desecrated, having it buried, keeping only a head as a memorial to Kislev's courage. If only his own legions showed such strength.

Archaon meanwhile let his rage simmer, his drive burn beneath his skin. He had destroyed Kislev in a day, broken it like an egg and sent the whites running towards the Empire, the pitiful remnants of the Ice Nation were nothing, now the Empire was all that mattered. The Dwarfs were broken and isolated from the centuries, Bretonnia's knights were simple minded and deluded, allowing Archaon to seed a rebellion in their heartlands, but the Empire's armies were disciplined and strong, driven, well led and utterly dedicated. The Empire was everything, once he broke the realm of the false god Sigmar, the world was his.

But to break the Empire he needed to break this wall, and to break this wall he needed... something. The vast fleets of Norsca were being assembled at his order, but they couldn't carry nearly a tenth of the strength of his forces to the Empire, no, the wall had to fall. Others would scurry back to their patrons, or hurl themselves at the wall of faith and try to tear it down with their bare hands, many had and regretted it swiftly. But he was Everchosen, the last Everchosen, he was not like those that are or those that came before, he stood above them all, and he would devise his way through this barrier as he had every one that had come before. Time itself was his and if it took him an eternity he would get through the wall and have his vengeance on the land of Sigmar behind it.

()()()

 _The Oak of Ages – Athel Loren_

 _The sea wind brushed the waves gently up and down the coast of Lothern like the stroke of a painter's brush, the warm water rushing over Aliathra's bare feet, her toes sinking into the soft sand. Her brother Yulerian dived on his eagle, the claws of the mighty beast stroking the water like a teasing lover as he laughed joyfully, his hair flying behind him like the plume of a helm._

" _He improves daily," her father said, walking up beside her, his Chracian guardsmen holding respectfully back. "One day he will lead Asur armies from that eagle."_

" _It's a shame about his griffon," she commented. Something had happened to it, but she couldn't quite remember what, though he seemed to be just as capable with the great eagle. Though the joy she remembered her brother having when he flew was gone, he was not laughing or smiling or performing in the wind, every move was methodical, practiced, functional in war, his face hard set with determination and concentration._

" _It is a shame, though there is far more to pity for him than that his griffon was slain. He will need you, you know."_

 _She glanced up at her father who was watching his son with sorrow in his eyes. "He'll need you as well father."_

 _Her father looked down at her, tears racing down his cheeks. "You'll have to make up for me, I can't be there for him, not anymore. Or for you."_

" _What do you mean father?"_

 _He set off slowly down the beach and she followed. "When you return, you will find the world much changed, I'm sorry, I can't be there. I never wanted to leave you alone. There are things you should know, things I should have told you, things I never could. I'm sorry."_

" _Sorry for what?" She asked, trepidation rising within her. "What are you talking about?"_

 _He started to pull away from her and though she sped up she couldn't catch him. "Father!"_

" _I'm sorry, Aliathra."_

" _FATHER!"_

" _Aliathra," her father sounded distant, but less ethereal, familiar and different, more alive. "Aliathra!"_

A buzzing pain in her throat woke Aliathra deep within the bowels of the Oak of Ages. Everything hurt, to crack her eyes open sent a lance of pain straight to her brain, when she tried to make a noise the air passed through her wind pipe like a fistful of serrated blades and her limbs weighed her down like great lumps of lead yoked to her shoulders with paste.

She couldn't remember much but pain, death and light, a glowing sword and great howl of power and pain. A knife at her throat and her drawing on every power she could find to keep herself alive and it seemed to have worked. She didn't think she was bound to her waystone, and if this was the belly of She-Who-Thirsts then the Asur were wrong about what that meant. But she felt a different power, a familiar one, one of life, one that she grown up around in Avelorn. Her mother's power.

"Aliathra," her mother's voice murmured beside her.

"Mother," she rasped, her voice dragging up her throat.

A soothing sensation ran along her throat like honey on the inside and a warm fur on the outside, but the cold bite of metal was a constant inside her. "Try not to talk, you are still being healed," her mother said, voice flushed with relief. "But you're alive, that's what's important."

"Wh-"

"Shhh," she said. "Go back to sleep my daughter, we'll talk when you are done."

A mist-like sensation swept over her and sleep took her once more.

She woke again, this time to silence and a great ache in her bones. The pain was submerged, still there but present, as though screaming at her from the bottom of a lake. She reached her hand up to her throat but recoiled it sharply, she could feel the jagged mark on her skin, splitting the front of her throat and she remembered the dagger and the cold sharp pain of it ripping her throat open. But that was all it was, a memory.

"Aliathra!"

She looked around. Prince Tyrion was standing beside her, tall proud and powerful, but with a weariness scrawled across his face. "Lord Tyrion," she whispered. _He was meant to save me_ , she remembered. And he had, he had carved through the foul shield of the Liche that had slain her fath- wait, no, he hadn't, the glowing sword wasn't the sunmaker, and the man who came to her rescue wasn't Prince Tyrion. It had been... someone else. "Where... where am I?"

"You are within the Oak of Ages," came a voice more beautiful than any that she had heard before, soothing, calming and reverberating through the air with power. She could feel the power as well, as one with the voice and looked up to see the speaker. A woman, as beautiful as her mother, glowing with a radiant blue light. "Welcome to my home, Aliathra the Everchild. I am Ariel, Lady of the Wood, Incarnate of Isha and Eternal Queen of the Asrai."

"With the lady Ariel's help, you were healed," her mother said, stepping up from behind the Asrai Goddess-Queen. Her mother smiled down upon her, smoothing her hair back. "Lord Tyrion has been standing guard over you while we did so, he hasn't slept since we began.

"And the bargain was fulfilled," Ariel finished, showing none of the warmth her mother did. "Now I must return, and you must leave. I will not have two who bear the Curse of Khaine in their blood in my home any longer, the Oak of Ages will not allow it in it's tender form, I must finish it's regrowth."

Aliathra didn't see Tyrion and Alarielle glance at each other fearfully at Ariel's words. Instead she struggled to her feet and Tyrion lunged forward to help her. Together with her mother, who cast one last glance back at Ariel, they helped her out of the Oak of Ages and into the King's Glade.

The King's Glade was dark and brooding. Winter had come to the trees, the God King Orion was burned, waiting to be reborn come the Spring, the trees were silent, the Asrai retreated apart from the Eternal Guard, who stood watch over the glade, surrounding the small Asur force that had gathered, those that remained of the army sent to rescue Aliathra from the clutches of Arkhan the Black and Mannfred von Carstein.

At the fore was Korhil, the captain of her father's White Lions. "My lady," he said with relief when she appeared, approaching her respectfully, but bowing her head. "You're alive."

She nodded. "I am."

"We are ready to depart at your command, Everqueen." Korhil said. "The ships at Marienburg await our arrival, from where we can depart for Ulthuan."

"Why not somewhere closer, why not Bordeleaux or L'Anguille, or even the World Roots?" Tyrion asked.

"The Roots cannot be used in winter," Alarielle told Tyrion. "But Marienburg is some distance away, and the Empire is at war."

"As is Bretonnia, my lady," Korhil said. "A great civil war rages in the north, and threatens to spill south, passage to L'Anguille is blocked by the armies of Louen Leoncouer and the rebels, Bordeleaux is not yet affected by the war but is too close for comfort. The Empire may be at war, but the Free City of Marienburg is far from it, it is the safest harbour for the ships, and gives us the safest route to them. Even if the journey is longer, we will not be beset by foes."

She and Tyrion nodded. "Very well, prepare for travel."

"Not yet!" Aliathra declared suddenly.

They all looked at her.

"There is something I must do first. The knight, the human who saved my life, who was he?"

"Human?" Alarielle asked.

She nodded. "A human battled Arkhan the Black, tried to stop him from casting the ritual, did stop him from killing me outright, but he died, I need to thank his people for doing so. Without them I would not be here."

"Duke Tancred of Quenelles," said Eldyra, the knight bore a new scar upon her face from the battle. "He and his Pegasus knights got to the top of Drakenhoff first. They all died, but he was right in the circle, reduced to bone and dust. He was likely the knight you spoke of."

Quenelles was in Bretonnia, Duke Tancred a servant of King Louen Leoncouer. "Then I must go to King Louen and give thanks for his Duke's sacrifice." That's what her father would do.

"Aliathra you are weak, we must go home," her mother insisted.

"No," she reaffirmed, pulling away from Tyrion's guiding arms. "I go to King Louen. And I would visit Duke Tancred's family as well, though as loyal servants of the King they are likely at his side."

"You cannot go, I won't allow it." Her mother said firmly.

Aliathra ignored her and turned instead to Korhil. "Captain Korhil, did my father send you to me?"

He paused, glancing at Alarielle and Tyrion for a moment before nodding. "He did."

"I am going to King Louen's court, whether that be at his home city or on the battlefield to give my thanks. Will you escort me?"

Korhil looked at her for only a moment before nodding. "It would be our honour and pledge," he replied, his detachment of White Lions standing with him.

Aliathra turned back to her mother. "I am going now mother, if you and Prince Tyrion wish to return home you may do so. I will see you when I return."

Alarielle looked at her then at Tyrion who sighed. "You have so much of King Finu- of your father in you," he said. "I will go with you."

"So will I," said Alarielle, her face flashed with something at the mention of her husband, but it passed and Aliathra didn't notice it. As Aliathra, accompanied by Korhil, walked a short distance away, she approached Tyrion. "She may not be Finubar's daughter. But she is so like him."

"She is," Tyrion replied a note of pain in his voice. He always sounded like that when he was reminded that Aliathra _could_ not be his. He looked at her. "When do we tell her he is dead?"


	15. 2-2

_The Silver Pinnacle - The World's Edge Mountains_

The Silver Pinnacle was a great fortress of the Dwarfs, set deep into the mountains, with mines running like burrows beneath it to uncover hidden gems and jewels and silver, silver in abundance. To get there on the surface required one to walk a great winding path, set with crags and crevasses leading down to a death by broken bone and ruptured organ. Overhangs above stood ready for arrows and stones to bring death upon an enemy and sentry points so well set that they were indistinguishable from the mountain around allowed for early warnings of any possible attacker. It was these that were of the most value to the inhabitants of the Silver Pinnacle, for it had been many centuries since a dwarf had last walked these halls, and the mines and pits deep within were dusty and unused, ancient dwarfen machinery hanging freely over mines from where veins of silver had once been carted up to the hold above. But the undead had little use for silver, and this great fortress had become home to one of the greatest of them ever to walk the earth. Neferata, the dark Queen of Lahmia, and the first of the beings known to men as vampires.

She had been here for centuries, biding her time, waiting for her next move to present itself, for she was patient, she could wait. But now events were moving faster than she liked, and she knew that she would have to move to keep up, or risk being left behind, for great chaos was about to engulf the world, and with it, opportunity.

Nagash was gone. He'd been dead, as much as a being like that could be dead, for many years but now he was _gone_. His call, a constant echo in the heads of her kind, gone. She felt the disturbances that happened at Drakenhof, and more than one spy placed in Mannfred von Carstein's court. When Nagash was struck down, she knew it, she felt it, and this time, he would not return, not ever, not again. Finally she was free of the one who had enslaved her, even when she had offered her service to him freely, and it would be time for her to move. She had sent the recall to her agents from the von Carstein court, she needed to know what had happened and what was going to happen, so she could decide how best she would move. The news they had brought was strange. Her husband of old had returned to life once again. She was the first of her kind, but he was the most famous, Vashanesh had been his name as her general and king in Lahmia, though now he was calling himself Vlad. Mannfred was dead, struck down by Vlad when he resumed his title, and dead and living were looking towards a new threat, to the north, another Everchosen. She had seen all of them rise and fall, and she knew this one would be no different. With Vashanesh seeing to them, she could turn her eyes to other matters. Home. In truth this place was no home to her, it was a fortress, a refuge, a place to gather her power and protect herself while her agents saw all that was happening in the world. It was time for her to leave, and return the home of her birth and right, Lahmia. She had spent her months gathering her people to her, preparing her undead army, and her final agent was coming now. He had been a pet of von Carstein before, but still, this man was not to be underestimated, for Heinrich Kemmler was the foremost Necromancer in the world, a source of great power, and that undead beast Krell was powerful as well. She would have to be careful when dealing with him.

"He will be here soon mistress," one of her handmaidens, a beautiful pale thing, thin as a spear but with possibly the most enchanting eyes that Neferata had ever seen in life or death. Of course, beauty was in abundant supply amongst the Lahmian cults who followed her, beauty could open many doors that the most skilled thieves, powerful spells and intricate lockpicks could not, and Neferata only chose the best to grant the Blood Kiss to.

She nodded. "I know." Her lookouts had spotted him long ago.

When Kemmler entered Neferata had to hide her revulsion. This creature was still a man, but hardly, withered with age yet still carrying himself strongly, with a sense of great purpose, his grip on his staff never wavering. The wide brim of his hat concealed his lined and craggy face and he was so crass that the lower half of his robes were not made from silk, satin or even hard leather. No, for his robes Kemmler had decided upon a lattice of flayed human skin, stitched into the skirts of his robe. Such an act could be expected from the Druchii, but Kemmler was a man, and it only showed his depravity. She had no doubt that against someone the Lichemeister was attempting to dominate or cajole it had a certain morbid purpose, but the idea of it sullying her halls was galling.

"High Queen Neferata," he said, bowing his head in respect if not defence. Krell, the armoured giant of a man stood still and silent, his axe heavy beside Kemmler. "I was most honoured to hear your invitation to come to your court."

"And I am most honoured that you accepted," she lied as much as he did, there was no honour here, only what they both wanted from the other, and who could get the most.

Kemmler was more cunning than she had imagined, able to play his cards well and in the end they both got what they wanted. Kemmler agreed to supply Neferata with another army, and in turn she revealed the location of a place of great power for him.

As the Lichemeister left to raise her a powerful army, Neferata's handmaidens gathered around her. "What you offer, lady," Lady Annariette, a Bretonnian daughter Neferata had snatched away, seduced in but a single evening and sent back into her homeland as her own creature, "it is a great deal, if Kemmler succeeds, he will become a threat." She'd been a crucial agent in Mousillon, keeping track of the undead holding there as well as passing on news of the rest of the Kingdom of Knights. Annariette had been forced to flee when the Black Knight arrived with his Dark Grail Knights and demonic allies to drive the undead out and unite the province in service of a different darkness. Neferata had known about the Bretonnian Civil War before anyone else in the outside world.

She beckoned Annariette over and stroked her thin pale cheek fondly. "Then, my dear, we will have to ensure that he does not. It will be simple enough to arrange. Oh Jolende." Another girl stepped forward, more lithe than most, but more suited to the task. "You know what is needed of you, travel to the stone hold I told you about, I trust you will handle the rest." Jolende's physique would make her disguise more convincing, and she was more than able to disguise her nature. "The rest of you go, oversee preparations and wait for my word. When Kemmler returns, we leave this place.

With barely a wave she dismissed her handmaidens and her thoughts turned to another matter. The loss of her network in Bretonnia upset her, some were dead, and the rest struggled to report through war. But it also blinded her to an aim of hers for some time. Abhorash. Before Vashanesh had come to Lahmia, Vashanesh had been her finest soldier, perhaps he was greater than the man she took as her husband. Of all her kind, Abhorash alone had cured his vampirism when he drank the blood of a great dragon. Still with the speed and power of a vampire, but without the call of blood, and now not even the sun would affect him, with Nagash's curse broken. He would be perfect now. His last sighting had been generations ago, in Bretonnia and she'd been trying to pick up his trail but had found nothing. It seemed she would have to advance her goals without him. Perhaps it was for the best – Abhorash could slaughter her entire entourage if he wished, and he may still hold it against her for tricking him into taking the elixir that had turned him into what he was today. Even if he owed his greatness to that very potion.

 _Nagashizzar – Nehekhara_

Settra roared his royal fury as the Blessed Blade of Ptra carved through the ratmen, their fur burning in the sun-heat. Settra's Tomb Guard marched alongside him, Nekaph at their head, carving through the enemy hordes like scythes through wheat. His Princes were leading their own regiments through the city, purging it of yet more of these foul creatures so that Settra might learn for himself what had happened.

The city of the Great Necromancer was filled with bones before Settra and the army of Khemri arrived. He had seen the Black Pyramid rising beyond Khemri, casting his city into shadow at times, the gall of the Necromancer to dare try and build a structure greater than his own tomb. And he had seen it fall, the black stones crack as though shot through with veins, leaking black fluid before coming crashing down, the sands themselves twisted and turned and in a matter of hours the remains of the pyramid had been swept away, all trace of their existence erased from the earth.

He had felt a great blow shudder through his bones, a weight that he hadn't known he had been bearing lifting from his skin. The Liche Priests claimed that Nagash was dead and gone, dead for good. But Settra had to know, had to see for himself. So he had roused his army again, and set off for the other seat of Nagash's power, the only other place to defy him, Nagashizzar, the twisted city raised by Nagash himself, and where his wounded spirit had been coalescing.

When his army arrived he had found the city occupied by ratmen, more of the ilk that had taken up residence in Arkhan's tower, carting away warpstone, toiling endlessly in the mines. Never to be worn out from the long and ceaseless march, the legions of Khemri had set about an immediate assault, charging the walls and scaling them as the alarm was sounded. But so focussed were the Skaven on their mines that by the time they rushed out to engage the attackers, Settra had already scaled the walls and the heart of his army was following him.

They had split off, like the hydra with a thousand heads, ranks of skeletal warriors following their princes and generals into the antechambers, barracks, alchemical labs and mines of the fortress to clear it.

They would find little challenge, the Skaven that had come had not yet had enough time to fill out a warren and start breeding en masse, but that would be for the princes to learn, Settra was carving his way to the throne room, where he would either learn that the Necromancer was dead, or destroy him himself.

"Attack, destroy the vermin!" He carved through four more foes with a single strike of his blade as his loyal soldiers pressed on, his Tomb Guard crushing bone beneath their feet as they marched onwards. Onwards they fought, tireless limbs sloughing furred flesh into the air, noseless faces unmoving at the scent of such death.

A great green flash powdered the guards immediately around Settra into dust, a spell cast by the Grey Seer present, but the King of Kings was unhurt, the Scarab Brooch of Usirian enveloping him with protection, the normally potent amulet strengthened lately, as though the gods themselves had grown stronger. As more Tomb Guard rushed up to join him, Settra turned into a whirling blur of sunlit steel, his blade carving through everything that dared approach him as he charged, determined to find the one that had dared to harm his men. By the time his Tomb Guard caught up, the clanrats were rushing away, clawing and slaughtering each other to get away. Others would deal with the lesser rats, Settra had another challenge to face.

In the throne room was Grey Seer Vilenix. He had come from Skavenblight as soon as they had felt Nagash's death to take the fortress and mine the warpstone that Nagash had long watched over. Now he was under attack! This was supposed to be easy, take the fortress, gather the warpstone to improve his own reputation and then leave. Such a prize would elevate him greatly in Skavendom. But only if he survived to take it.

"Go go, kill bone-things!" His Stormvermin formed up as the door to the throne room began to shake.

"Hehehe, surprise bone things yes-yes," he said as he looked behind him at his best units, a contingent of Rat Ogres and behind them, slouched over the great throne of Nagashizzar, a Hellpit abomination, bone things would regret standing in his way, oh yes yes they would.

With a great crash the door swung open and Settra the Imperishable marched into the throne room. He paused before the throng of armoured Skaven warriors and the grotesque beasts behind them. Then he roared a rallying cry and his Tomb Guard advanced on the horrors. Following the example of their King and his Herald, who followed at once, his skull flail spinning dangerously, the Tomb guard hurled themselves at the Stormvermin, crashing into them with flashing bronze blades. The Stormvermin were armed with the greatest of scavenged arms and armour, many of them claiming their tools of war from the corpses of the Dwarfs, but against the might of the finest of Settra's legions, they could not stand for long and were slowly pushed back. Vilenix saw this and sent his Rat Ogres in, scattering his Stormvermin to get to the Tomb Guard. These great beasts were able to halt the Tomb Guard in their tracks. Settra confronted one of them personally, ducking under the swinging arms and carving through the legs of the beast, severing muscle and tendon. As it fell forwards, it's useless legs unable to support it, Settra cut upwards in a great strike that carved it in two, guts and mutated innards rained around the King before he charged forwards towards the Grey Seer. But another Rat Ogre intercepted his thrust, his sword easily piercing it's flesh before it stuck. Seeing their chance, two more of the Ogres leapt at Settra, determined to crush the King. But a great golden flash filled the room and at once all three of their heads fell to the floor. The fighting paused as all turned to see the intruder. A great winged creature, beautiful, part man part eagle, with great plummed wings protruding from his shoulders and the head of an eagle on his shoulders, bronzed skin that shone even in the darkness made up the rest of his body and in his hand he clutched a blade of pure light, brighter even than the sword wielded by Settra. But he seemed only half himself, old moulted feathers were falling from his ruffled neck, ribs that had ripped through his skin were pulling themselves back inside as the golden skin knitted itself back together and what remained of an exoskeleton clattered to the floor.

Even Settra paused in a moment of wonderment. The creature launched itself at the Hellpit abomination, his sword flashing with peerless skill, and after a minute of flashing blades, the abomination lay dead on the floor.

The Skaven broke, the Stormvermin attempting to flee, but were trapped in the throne room and slaughtered to the last rat, Settra's Herald Nekaph shattered Grey Seer Vilenix's skull with his flail as the golden figure turned to the King of Kings.

"What are you?" Settra demanded.

"I am Hammurai," the creature replied. He outstretched his arms and looked once more to the sky. "After millennia of torment and imprisonment, I am free. Ptra. Lord of Sky and Light, Lord of all that is. Take me to your arms again!"

A great beam of light shot through the black walls of Nagash's city and engulfed the figure. And Settra knew at once what this creature was, one of the winged heralds of Ptra, his angels of war, his Hammurai

Long ago, Ptra had sought to use the sun to burn Nagash from existence after the Necromancer had poisoned Nehekhara, but like the rest of the Old Gods, his power had waned as those of the Dark Gods grew and his ability to interfere directly was greatly diminished, even more so with the death of his people. But he was not helpless, and so had sent his army of his angels, the Hammurai, to take revenge on Nagash. But at the height of his power, even the Heralds of Ptra, with their blades forged in the sun and spreading the light by their mere presence, could not stop Nagash and after forty days of battle at Nagashizzar, Nagash stood victorious amongst the ruins of Ptra's host. To further insult the god, Nagash had used his power to warp the Hammurai into his greatest weapons, bending them to his will to lead his mindless armies. After Nagash had fallen for the first time they had tried to follow his commands still, but the Tomb Kings were able to subdue them and seal them away.

But with Nagash gone for good, Ptra was able to recover his host. Augmented by Nagash's power, Ptra broke the seals and recovered his host, cleansing them of Nagash's power and restoring them as his soldiers, for he would need them in the war to come.

The Hammurai turned back to Settra as the light of the sun engulfed him. "Settra, King of Kings. This new enemy will not stop here, you must find their home, eradicate it in the name of Ptra." He gestured to the bodies of the Skaven. "What they plan is for the ill of all. A great evil descends upon the world and the evil underneath it will use it as a blindfold to disguise their ill purpose. It falls to you to stop them, Settra. March in the name of Ptra – battle in the name of Ptra – and achieve victory in the name of Ptra!" The light flashed once more and the hammurai warrior was gone.

 _Ostland, near the Auric Bastion_

Order had been restored to the north. After Gelt's Deliverance, as the common soldiers were calling the Auric Bastion, had been raised the Imperial armies had set about the frontier, marching forth, instilling order in every town and village, hunting down Beastmen herds and the warbands of Chaos that had been trapped behind the wall as the armies of the southern provinces joined them. Witch Hunters and Warrior Priests stalked the land, pyres lit in every village as Chaotic agents were rooted out and set alight with holy fire. He had nearly been set alight himself as what was left of his warband barely escaped the outriders and Witch Hunters.

Vangaar snarled as he and his surviving warriors moved on through the forests of Ostland. They were the last refuge for the warbands of the tip of the chaos spear. Other than that the Empire's armies had restored order, gathering up the refugees from the initial chaos attacks and shifting them south so that the followers of the Dark Gods had been unable to vent their fury upon the peoples of the Empire. "How much longer?!" He demanded of Zuritch. The twisted form of the sorcerer turned to him, holding his staff out before him.

"Not long now, my lord, but we must be careful, or the Elf-mage or the Patriarch will hear us, find us yes yes."

He growled and watched through the forests for any kind of imperial scout, elf of the wood or Beastman, for though those creatures served the dark powers, they were still beasts, and would attack him and what remained of his warriors if they found them in their weakened state.

"He is here, he is here," his sorcerer entoned, his head wobbling eagerly from side to side.

Vangaar turned as the phantasmal image of the Everchosen took form in the shadows of the trees. The edges of him were distorted by Tzeentch's power and he seemed hollow in form, but even his projection showed his raw power and drive that was enough to make Vangaar turn his head and look away. "At last I have found you." Even through the phantom projection, he was as menacing as ever.

He dropped to his knee. "My Lord Everchosen."

Archaon gestured for Vangaar to stand. "You are the most capable warriors left to me behind the Auric Bastion. You will now serve."

Vangaar nodded. "I live to serve."

"All you are is to serve me, and you will now do so. I tire of being trapped in this frozen wasteland. I will see this wall torn down and you will be my hand in this endeavour."

"I will follow your plan, my lord."

The Everchosen nodded. "My sorcerers have determined that the wall is maintained by the priests and wizards of the Empire. As I launch an attack on the north side of the wall, you will attack the south. Kill the holy men and wizards empowering one section of the wall and together we will rip it down."

"I would if only I had the power, my lord, but I have lost nearly all of my warriors."

Archaon paused. "Then you will find more," he said. "Travel to the Drakwald Forest. There you will seek out Khazrak One-Eye and his horde of Beastmen. His Brayherd will provide you the numbers you need." Before Vangaar could reply, the Everchosen gave a final warning. "Fail me, and I will ensure that none of the hells see fit to take you into their embrace."With a flicker the image of the Everchosen was gone.

But he had given his orders, Vangaar told his men to begin heading west, towards the Drakwald forest in Middenheim. He would be a fool to challenge the orders of the Everchosen, if he were to disobey he may as well go and throw himself on one of the Imperial pyres.


	16. 2-3

_Nordland Coast_

Luthor ducked his head under a low hanging branch as he urged his horse forward, the trudging of his retinue's armoured boots thudding along the forest path through the snow behind him. He reached up and brushed a patch of snow off his pauldron. Winter was here now and Nordland always suffered harshly in the season of death.

Most of Nordland had been swept up in the Imperial evacuation ordered by Franz, moving south and west, away from the war front, and Luthor and his men had passed through a dozen deserted villages on their way to the coast. He knew that this was a wasted venture, and so did Captain Oscar and his detachment of soldiers. Luthor Huss was well aware of his reputation for causing disturbances, and so Franz had sent him to investigate reports of norse raiders. But it didn't matter to Luthor, if there were norse raiders then he could devote himself to Sigmar in battle once again, as was his duty as the god's prophet.

As they drew closer to the sea, the salty smell of the sea breeze came upon their nostrils along with the smell of death. He raised his hammer and called a halt. "What is it?" Oscar asked.

"Listen," Huss replied. The cawing of hundreds of crows came from above them, singing through the sky. "Carrion feast on the fallen of battle. Quick march!"

The men were weary from the day's march, but picked up the pace to keep in step with the two riders. Soon he raised his hammer again to call for a halt. A body lay against a tree, a roughly hewn spear protruding from the muscled body. A norscan raider to be sure, clad in furs with a cloven shield and an ugly axe resting near his fingers. "He won't be the only one, be ready."

Oscar nodded. "Weapons ready gentlemen." Fifty swords were drawn from their scabbards and some crossbows were drawn back, bolts loaded.

More bodies lay strewn along the path, not just norscan raiders but also militiamen. It made him both sad and proud, to see the people of the Empire slain by the great enemy was a moment for sorrow, but that they chose to take up arms was a moment of inspiration. More and more bodies hacked and hewn were strewn across the path and amidst the trees as they emerged onto the beach where they saw the true scale of the death. The groaning empty hulks of seven norscan warships were beached on the sand, sails flapping in the breeze, oars hanging like spider's legs into the shallows. Their contingents of warriors had been disgorged where they had been met by a veritable army of militiamen, armed with basic weapons, the occasional ancestral pistol or sword, the peasant warriors of the Empire had fought the enemy to a standstill. Not one banner of any official imperial regiment stood as a rallying cry, and none of the slain were decked in the blue and yellow of Nordlander state troops. Luthor dismounted, his armoured heels sinking into the soft red-stained sand. "We must look for survivors. Spread out but keep your weapons ready."

The men cautiously advanced along the beach, stopping every now and then to check a corpse for signs of life, but finding nothing. "How were they able to stand against northern raiders alone?" Oscar asked in wonderment. "They lacked training, and their weapons are subpar at best." He'd picked up an antique pistol before tossing it aside as useless.

"But they had faith, captain," he replied, gently pulling a pendant out from the blood stained clothes of a militiaman who had been gutted, on the end of the chain was the hammer of Sigmar. "Faith alone can make heroes of men."

"My lord Luthor, Captain Oscar, over here!" Cried one of the swordsmen, crouching down in the surf.

He hurried over. The soldier was holding up the body of a militiaman, but his chest was rising shakily, despite the large wound in his side. He wasn't long for this world.

"Please..." he wheezed, coughing up speckles of blood. "Please... you must..."

"Calm yourself," Luthor said, kneeling down beside him and resting a hand on his shoulder. "It will all be alright. You fought valiantly. Sigmar himself will no doubt take you to his side."

The man shook his head. "Our... leader... the hero... he..."

"Hero?" Luthor asked. "What do you mean? Speak?"

But the man looked past him to the trees. "Some of... them... escaped and he... he foll... followed them in there," he raised a shaky finger to the trees. "Please... you must... find him... he will... save us all." With that his head lolled back and he fell silent.

"The ravings of a dying man," Oscar sighed. "Keep up the search."

"Did you not here what he had to say?" Luthor demanded, getting to his feet and facing the Captain. "This man forced himself to survive so that he might tell us that some of the enemy survived the battle, they must be hunted down and the man who led these men found."

"The hero?" One of the swordsmen whispered.

"Yes," Luthor declared. "The hero. The darkness falls and it will be on the shoulders of heroes that the Empire survives."

"What about survivors?" Asked a crossbowman.

Luthor pointed his hammer into the trees, where the survivor had spent his last strength indicating. "In there we will find our survivors. With me, now!"

He set off towards the trees. Oscar sighed, he wanted to stay and look for more survivors, but he had been assigned to the eclectic Warrior Priest's detail, and if he was going into the trees, then so was Oscar. "Come men, and stay sharp."

Luthor searched the treeline for any sign of disturbance that might indicate where a follower of Chaos had lurched through. He had spent decades following such disturbances and heretics, he knew what he was doing and soon enough he found the path, tell tale hacking marks on the trees showing the way they were growing, while broken branches at waist and knee height. They weren't trying to be subtle. "This way."

They followed the trees, spread out but in clear line of sight to at least four other soldiers. Luthor led the way as the tracks weaved, backpedalled and got heavier, closer together.

Soon the silence of the trees was broken by the telltale sounds of combat, steel ringing on steel and warcries of tired but determined warriors. Silently he led his men forward to see what was happening. Soon enough they came across a clearing where Huss ordered the men kept hidden, crossbows ready as he looked out. A group of at least a score and a half norsemen stood, axes ready, worn out and exhausted, but victorious as opposite them fewer than ten militiamen remained alive, and less than half that number on their feet. But none looked ready to surrender, and they clutched their weapons with grim determination and before them stood a figure who could only be their leader, he had to be, what else could he be. He was a tall youth, no older than twenty five but no shorter than six feet, heavily muscled, with blonde hair falling to his shoulder. He wore no armour, only a thin linen tunic that had been ripped from the battle and carried not a sword and shield but two blacksmiths' hammers, both stained with blood. Unlike the others he didn't seem to be tired or exhausted, he still stood tall and strong and ready to do battle.

"What are you?" One of the norsemen demanded in a mix of fury and utter bewilderment that a force of citizen militia could have stopped them.

"Doom," the boy demanded in a voice of power and nobility that did not befit a blacksmith. "For you and all your ilk."

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned. Oscar signalled that the men were ready. "Go," he whispered.

"Fire!" Oscar roared and crossbow bolts shot out towards the norscan raiders.

"For Sigmar!" Huss roared and hefted his warhammer, charging out of the trees towards the norse, the swordsmen following on closely. Those norse that hadn't been struck by the bolts were caught completely unawares. Huss swung his hammer in a heavy arc that shattered the head of one of the raiders before bringing it around to cave in the chest of another, who was lifted off his feet and hurled bodily through the air. Caught unawares and outnumbered by the fresh new arrivals, the last norse raiders were cut down without mercy.

When the last of them fell heavily to the forested earth, Luthor turned back to the surviving militiamen. The wounded were looking at them in wonderment, but their leader had already turned from them, ripping off his tunic and using it to bind the wounds of one of his followers. "Thank you for coming," he said over his shoulder as he finished.

"Would that we had come sooner," Huss lamented.

"Would that many things had happened," the youth replied, "let us not focuss on what has happened, instead we should look to the future."

"Your... soldiers fell at the beach," Captain Oscar said, stepping up to Huss' side. "Do you not mourn them?"

The youth grunted as he tightened the makeshift bandage. "Mourn them? I do not mourn them, I give thanks that such men ever came to live."

He turned to them and Huss felt his breath catch in his throat. Oscar took a breath and he could hear the soldiers murmur. A birthmark was stretcher across the youth's chest, a birthmark in the shape of the Twin-Tailed Comet, that which had heralded Sigmar's coming. The youth held out his hand. "And I will do them honour in the wars to come. I'm pleased to meet fellow soldiers. My name is Valten."

 _The Marshes of Madness_

Khatep had almost grown capable of distinguishing between sand dunes in his centuries of trying to unearth lost lore and ancient knowledge, but while he'd been beyond the borders of Nehekhara many times, these marshes were new to the Grand Heirophant of the Mortuary Cult. He'd never had any reason to come here after before. The city at the heart of the swampy terrain, Mourkain, or Morgheim, as it was named in the bastardised tongues of lesser civilisations, had once been a seat of the monstrous Strigoi, before they had been cast down by an orc Waaagh. He knew some lesser undead still took refuge in the city, but it was no longer a seat of power. In his experience the Greenskins left so little unspoiled that he was unlikely to find anything of note there. No, he much preferred the ruins touched only by time. But then Nagash had died.

Khatep had been there when Nagash rose and been there when he fell, he had been there when the Tomb Kings arose and it was he who had broken the seals on Settra's tomb, freeing the King of Kings in order to restore order to Khemri and then to the kingdom once again. There he had been banished, never to return to the city unless it was with the knowledge to restore the land of Nehekhara to what it once was. In order to achieve that he had delved the deepest archives and lost cities, responded to every new disturbance before the scavengers got their first, or hunting them down if they had. And so it was now. Nagash was dead, he had felt it as had everyone else in the world, but while they were rejoicing in the lifting of the darkness, Khatep was following something, something almost lost in the backlash of dark power, a golden light. It was not like the light of the newly returned hammurai, no, it was not holy, it was human in nature, so very human, wracked with pain and sorrow, though he could detect little else. First it went to Nagashizzar, then to Khemri, passing unseen by all, before it had rushed north and come to rest in old Mourkain.

And it was here that Khatep had followed. He trudged on in lonely silence, not a carrion bird or desert vulture for company, only insects and stagnant water as he passed through the jungles and the ruins of Mourkain came into view.

The city had been gutted and left to ruin. The statues of the Strigoi had been worn down and were draped in leaves and vines, hanging from grotesque heads like locks of green hair. From a great archway hung rotted doors, even Khatep's ancient fingers could rip them apart without calling upon his magical powers.

He entered the city, old stone houses still standing in the cursed swamp, but the hovels of the lesser being were not where the broken soul had fallen, no it had fallen in the centre of the city, the Palace of Kadon. He made his way past dark streets where feral swamp cats lurked, past ponds where fat frogs looked up at him inquisitively. A snake crossed his path in the street, but only locked eyes with him once before slithering away. He moved on, staff tapping the tone as he did so. As he reached the foot of the steps leading to the entrance of the palace he paused. He could feel something inside, something other than what he had sought. In the darkness of this place he hadn't realised, but it was something dead.

He prepared himself for violence as he ascended the steps. The door to the palace wasn't rotted like the rest of the wood in this place, it was still intricately detailed mahogany. Raising his withered hand he pushed on the door and it swung open.

Seven figures turned to him. Three were tall, two men and a woman with striking aristocracy in their features, wearing archaic but glistening armour, swords at their belts. The others weren't people, merely animated piles of bones, no soul to them at all.

"Who is this, brothers?" Chortled the woman, "someone else has decided to come and take our prize."

 _Vampires._ Khatep had seen their creation and knew they were little more than upstarts. But they were powerful upstarts and against three of their ilk he would have to be careful. He shifted his weight gently

"What do we do about him sister?" asked the taller of the two males.

"I do not know what prize you speak of," Khatep interrupted. "I merely followed the signs."

"A senile, fantastic," said the third vampire, drawing his sword. "Let's kill this liche and be done."

Arrogance, typical of their cursed race. "There is no need for such talk," he said slowly, stepping forward.

"And there's no need for you to be here," spoke the sword wielding vampire again, raising his blade. "Turn around and leave creature, do not sully your inferiors."

Khatep kept himself from scoffing. That was one benefit of having a body completely emaciated from the centuries, only used to transport the soul around, controlling reactions and emotions was much easier than it was for mortals. "I am afraid that I cannot."

"We'll leave this one to you then shall we, brother?" The sister asked.

The vampire with the sword grinned, his fangs flashing dangerously. "Oh I'll be glad to rip this one apart, you two go in deeper."

"So be it, come brother," said the sister, beckoning the third vampire and they descended deeper into the palace.

This was all going rather well for Khatep, facing them individually they would cause no challenge for him. When his siblings had vanished from sight and sound, the vampire approached him lazily. "So tell me, withered thing, how do you want to die?"

"Far from now," he replied, twitching his fingers and summoning the souls of the Nehekharan underworld to him as the skeletons remained with the vampire spread out to encircle him. "What about you, how would you like to die?"

"You think you can kill me?" The vampire laughed, the sound booming off the walls. "I'd like to see you try."

"As you wish." The vampire lunged but Khatep, for all his frailty, was faster with his spells. From his eye sockets two great beams of sunlight shot out, catching the vampire in the chest and blasting him across the room, slamming him into the wall. As he cried out in pain, Khatep raised his staff and launched a variety of spells at the vampire until he was consumed but power and turned to dust.

Without his control the four skeletons clattered to the floor. Not casting a backwards glance at the dead, Khatep followed the other two vampires underground, into some kind of catacomb. He was surprised that they hadn't heard their fellow's cries and come back to aid him, maybe they really cared that little, even for their siblings.

But soon he heard the sounds of battle and cries of pain up ahead. Curious he cautiously advanced. He passed through some solid doors scrawled with iconography of the Strigoi. He saw the word "tomb" and then "great king" but couldn't translate any more without a more detailed study, and the presence of vampires, in his experience, made that difficult. He descended some more steps towards a circular room from which both light, and the sounds of fighting, were coming.

As he reached the bottom of the steps, he was frozen with alarm. The second male vampire was dead, his head carved clean from his shoulders and the woman was on her knees, bleeding black blood as another figure stood over them, both vampires' blades in hand, holding them crossed against the woman's neck. "Vampires," the figure hissed. "I will never be rid of you, spawn of Neferata!" With a single movement he severed the third vampire's head, sending it spiralling through the air as the body fell back.

The figure was garbed in the robes of a king prepared for burial, much like a tomb king was, though not as preserved, his skin was completely dessicated and parts were falling off. But even with that Khatep could tell he was a powerfully built man in life, strong corded muscles still clung to the bone and being able to defeat two vampires, especially when so recently risen, was no mean feat. This dead king was the source of the light he had been following, and he knew who it was now, he recognised it.

"You," the figure said, his voice sad, angry and regal all at once. "I know you."

Khatep bowed at the waist, clutching his staff tightly. "You do, King Alcadizaar, I am Khatep, Grand Heirophant of the Mortuary Cult."

Alcadizaar II, better known as Alcadizaar the Conqueror, the man who had battled Neferata and her spawn, slaying her general Vashanesh in single combat, the man who resisted Nagash for decades, and the man who had slain him for the first time, his spirit trapped within the weapon that he had wielded to do so, the Fellblade. He was the greatest King since Settra, and possibly the greatest hero that Nehekhara had ever seen, and in the wake of Nagash's death and the coming of Chaos, he had returned.

 _The Underway_

In the ancient highway of the Karaz Ankor, Thorek Ironbrow lead his expedition deeper into unexplored roads, only recently uncovered by the help of a manling woman. The scouts in the deeper tunnels had found the woman, battered and bleeding but remarkably alive, and brought her back to Karak Azul. There it had been proven worth it, the woman recounted tales of what she had seen, including signs of dawi deeper in the hold. She had left shortly afterward, thanking them for their kindness, and Thorek had gathered a powerful force of stout dawi to follow him in investigating. The woman had remembered a great deal and Thorek had a map, detailed with all the forks and details to follow, and perhaps most surprisingly, they hadn't found any resistance, no urki, grobi or thaggoraki stymied their way. Soon they had found what the woman had told them and Thorek knew that the centuries of his life may well have come to this moment.

They walked past sentry posts first, his assistant Kraggi had been startled by the sight of the dead sentries manning them. So long passed were these dawi that their bones had crumbled to dust in the underway. Their armour was old as well, so old that Thorek couldn't recognise it, it came from before even the War of Vengeance and the Time of Woes, for relics like that stood in the halls of the ancient holds. No, this was something old, something very old indeed.

He set a regiment of warriors and quarrellers to take up position on the sentry points and pressed onwards. Soon they encountered two longhalls. Inside beds stood against the walls on either side with a rack next to each one where weapons and arms could be stored and a single long table for the residents to eat at. A large empty fireplace stood at the end, the iron grate still sturdy.

At the back of each longhall was a set of stairs leading up to a watchtower from where they could see over the approaches. These were no halls for clans, only warriors. Whatever this place was it was no mere settlement, but a military outpost, perhaps dating from the time of Grimnir and Grungni and the Great War against Chaos. Still he pushed onwards, passing armouries and cold foundries, a military outpost, but why? Why so deep, so far away? The dawi knew the earth and no precious metals could be found here, no one should want to come here, so why was it so important to defend. And if it was so important, why no walls, why not greater fortification, unless you didn't want it to be found?

His warriors spread out, axes ready, being sure to check every corner and hole for signs of an ambush, but the dust settled here was being kicked up with every heavy footfall, no great numbers had been here for centuries.

At the back of the outpost was a great wall. One might be forgiven for mistaking it as the rockface apart from it's unnatural flatness. A courtyard stood in a large semi-circle around it and in the middle of the courtyard was an anvil. From the courtyard winding streets shot out towards what he presumed were more sentry positions and watch towers. "Be careful," he warned his followers, approaching the anvil cautiously, hammer held in his hand. His dwarfs spread out and raised their weapons and shields, ready for anything. He ran his palm along the anvil, sweeping off dust and cobwebs. This wasn't an anvil of iron but of stone. He took a calming breath, raised his hammer and brought it down on the anvil.

A great boom rang out from the anvil, making him step back and the dawi drop into a battle stance. But as he did so the wall behind the anvil lit up, great runes carved into the stones began to glow a faint blue. Thorek didn't know what those runes were exactly, but he could tell something of their inscription, they were runes of Valaya. A thin blue line also ran down the middle of the wall and along the top and bottom. This was no wall, it was a gate. This was everything, everything he could have hoped for, a treasure trove of ancient knowledge, he would have to examine this site. The gate didn't seem to be opening, only revealing itself, but a decade here could open the hold to who knew what. A treasure trove of ancient weapons and armour, lost technologies, perhaps even dawi from another age? The possibilities were endless for the holds. He turned to his men. "What we have found today is greater than all I have ever found before. This site must be made secure while I begin my examination, and send word to King Kazador, tell him what we have found here and tell him to come at once."

His dawi didn't hesitate and moved to obey his commands, his regiments of warriors making ready while his two gyrocopters, detestable new fangled machines, but they had their uses, set out to scour the surrounding land.

Thorek meanwhile set himself to examining the gate, a gate that was built to be both protected and hidden.

Little did the dwarfs know that they would not be alone for long. Kemmler arrived after the dwarfs had set up and Thorek was already deep in his research and he hissed that he had not been able to take this place alone. Neferata had not been lying, a source of great power rested behind that gate, and only a meddling of dwarfs stood between him and it. He had siphoned off a great host to accompany Neferata, but with what he had, combined with his own great power, he knew he could overwhelm the dwarfs, and of course, he had his ever faithful Krell at his side. Then whatever power lay beyond that door would be his to command, and it would propel him further towards taking Nagash's now vacant place as master of the dead.

"Go now Krell," he commanded, sending the ancient warlord to encircle the other side of the dwarfen forces. "Crush them my pets."

Thorek detected the approach of the magically imbued undead host as they were approaching and sent out the call to arms. "Dawi, to war, the uzkular come, lock shields, ready axes, prepare for battle!"

The dwarfs raced into position and spread the message as Krell's army surged forward, slamming into the first line of dwarfs who hadn't been able to form up in time. The isolated dwarfs fought fiercely, but were brought down. As they surged the southern routes, they came up against a second line, held fiercely by the command of Thane Burlock Grundison, who stood with his warriors in the thick of the fighting. Ringing flashes of lightning came down to aid them as Thorek set himself up on his anvil of doom.

Thunderers and quarrellers took to the rooftops, raining fire down on the undead and aiding the warriors against the undead. Krell pulled the best warriors of his Doomed Legion back and hurled in the zombies, setting them to overwhelm and wear down the dwarfs. But knowing that they were defending a site of significance, the Dawi held. Thorek pulled forces back from the north defences, where the dwarfs stood, itching for battle, but knew not to abandon their flank, and sent them to aid Burlock, who was still mounting his mighty defence in the streets, even as his men were being forced back inch by inch.

As the last of the zombie wave were cut down, Krell leapt in, leading his skeletal warriors. His great axe swung down and took two dawi heads off with a single blow, a lightning blast from Thorek broke on his shell without causing any damage and Krell's momentum tore apart the defensive line, which beat a hasty retreat back towards the courtyard and the third line of southern defences. But Burlock would not be swayed and faced down the skeletal warchief. "Face me foul uzkular!" He roared. His own daughter had been slain by the uzkular when the undead had raided a caravan from Karak Azul and given the chance to face one of their champions, he could not refuse. His axe swung, runes glowing as it was checked by Krell's great bladed weapon. Burlock was a veteran of war, but Krell had been a great warrior king of Khorne in life, carving out a great kingdom and battling the dwarfs many times over, and in death he was greater still. Perhaps some part of him remembered his mortal death at the hands of Grimbul Ironhelm at Karak Kadrin. If so it fuelled his undead prowess and he cut Burlock down to the anger and dismay of his dwarfs. As calls for vengeance roared out from the bristling dwarfen line, Kemmler unleashed his attack, striking at the weakened north as Krell pushed in from the south. Soon only the courtyard remained to the dwarfs, the units on the rooftops overwhelmed and slain by the swarming undead units. However, as the dawi fell back on Thorek a great horn sounded from the south and suddenly the rear of Krell's line was sundered apart.

The royal host of Karak Azul had come as Thorek had requested, and King Kazador Dragontamer lead them in person. His elite warriors carved through the weakened zombies and thin pathetic skeletons to try and relieve Thorek.

Krell, knowing that to turn and fight would simply leave him trapped between two heavy block of dwarfs, instead led his units forward, cutting their way around the courtyard to join Kemmler and the main army still pushing through.

A great chugging sound came overhead as a flight of gyrocopters roared, spraying great gouts of steam onto the undead lines and dropping their bombs, blowing apart Kemmler's warriors by the dozen and relieving some of the pressure on the last of Thorek's warriors as Kazador's men came to join them. A great bolt of darkness shot up from the undead host as Kemmler blew one of them out of the sky, sending it down in a great plume of fire.

Buoyed by the arrival of their King, the dwarfs fought with greater determination, eager to see the end of the enemy.

But it was then that Kemmler worked his most evil craft. His spells sank into the corpses of the fallen dwarfs, making them rise against their former comrades.

But while this might have shattered the morale of any other army, it only enraged the dwarfs further as they found themselves surrounded by the undead of Krell and Kemmler to the north and their own former comrades to the south. But it wasn't enough, their line was pushed back and back until Thorek's anvil was almost on the frontlines in a back quarter of the courtyard, only a single line of Ironbreakers holding the undead back.

Like an island in the sea they held, Kazador's wrath and skill and Thorek's anvil keeping the dwarfs fighting. As he fought, Kazador found himself battling Krell, both legendary warriors ringing blows off each other, Kazador's axe biting deep and his shield taking the brunt of Krell's blows. Then Kazador slammed his shield into Krell's leg, making the wight stumble. He raised his axe for the kill but Krell lashed out twice with his own axe, the first deflected Kazador's axe and the second took his head. The King of Karak Azul fell to the ground and his host was stunned into silence. Thorek roared and cast bolts of lightning at Krell, but the king was dead, and soon all would be lost as the undead swarmed on all sides.

Then, as Thorek rained a large, deafening blow down on his anvil a great crack sounded from behind the battle, like a giant handgun had been fired to silence them. The dwarf gate, the runes glowing brightly, full of life, swung open.

Both armies stopped their fighting to turn and watch as a single solitary figure, clad in a deep red cloak, carrying a great two handed axe emerged. It was a dwarf, that much was clear, but little else was, he stepped calmly towards the battle and paused. His hood was up and his cloak was so fastened that nothing could be made of his features. "We will suffer no trespass." He drove the butt of his axe into the ground and stood tall. Then he raised a gauntleted hand and pointed at Krell. "You will face me now." The dwarfs watched on as Kemmler stepped forward, regarding the new arrival with curiosity, then he nodded and beckoned Krell forwards.

Krell stepped up, looking to make another dawi head his own.

Without a word the two of them charged. The new arrival matched Krell blow for blow, his axe glowing brightly with great runes as his axe spun deftly in his hands. When Krell blocked one stroke, he spun it around his head and attacked his other side deftly, using the great metal haft to block the wight's every stroke. This warrior was different to Kazador, he roared no battle cry but stayed calm and true, never faltering or wavering and more and more rents were appearing in Krell's armour. Kemmler looked on in horror as his champion began to fall and cast his spells, knitting Krell back together throughout the fight. Even at the blatant dishonourable behaviour, the dwarf warrior wasn't phased and kept fighting. Then with one lucky blow he carved off one of Krell's legs below the knee and took his hand a second later, the warlord's great axe that had spilled so much dawi blood skittered to the floor. Finally the dwarf uttered a roar, a cry of ancient anger and vengeance as he raised his axe and brought it down, carving Krell in two and scattering his bones to the floor.

The dwarf rested his axe on the ground as Kemmler cried out. "No no no!" He shrieked. "Krell!" He rounded on the dwarf. "Who are you?!"

The dwarf turned to Kemmler and spoke his ancient tongue. As he did so he reached up and tore off his cloak. "I am the kin and champion of Grimnir. I am the apprentice and heir of Grungni. I am the paramour and protector of Valaya. I am Grombrindal – the White Dwarf!" The dwarfs were moved to wonderment by the sight of their hero, his great beard freed for the world to see, face set in a mask of vengeance and his rune axe held high and proud.

Kemmler roared out in anger, not knowing what that name was supposed to mean, and unleashed a torrent of magic at Grombrindal. But the ancestor of legend merely wrapped his sacred cloak of Valaya about himself and moved forward, the runes glowing their protection, wrapping them around the goddess' chosen champion. Kemmler didn't see until it was too late, so blinded by his rage was he. This was the power he had been after! This power that had destroyed Krell! He would have it, he would!

But when he was close enough, Grombrindal lashed out, his blade carving through Kemmler's stomach, gutting the Lichemeister.

Kemmler looked down at his belly as his spells ceased. "Oh," he said and fell back, the muscles holding his body upright carved like meat, and his spine rolled back until his head was touching the floor, at which point his feet gave way and he crumpled to the ground.

Kemmler did not rely on lesser necromancers to maintain his army, and with his death the undead host fell apart, leaving the battered remnants of the dwarfs with their hero alone in a field of the dead.

Grombrindal turned back to the Dwarfs. "I am sorry, my fellow dawi. I wish I could have come to you sooner, but we needed time." He knelt down beside King Kazador's body. One of the hammerer bodyguards of the king brought his head over. "Rest, noble King Kazador. You showed only strength, honour and noble defiance at the end. Your spirit shall find its way to the halls of your fathers."

The dwarfs hung their head in a moment of sorrow for their fallen king and protector. A few wondered what would happen next. Without Kazador, who would lead Karak Azul, the King's wife was slain and his son had taken the Slayer Oath long ago.

"Gather him up with respect," Grombrindal told them, "and the rest too. We must return to Karak Azul, this battle is won, but there are many more left for the Dawi to fight. That is why we come back to you now."

"We?" Asked Thorek, confused, the White Dwarf was a solitary fighter, this they knew.

They got their answer as a shuffling came from the gate. As one the remaining Dwarfs dropped to their knees in supplication, even Thorek, and even the White Dwarf bowed his head.

She came in a dress of fine mail over a purple gown, long blonde hair braided falling down to her feet and a single bladed rune axe in her belt. She gave of a glow of warmth, power and protection and even in the darkness of their lost brothers and fallen King, the dwarfs of Karak Azul felt hope flood them.

Valaya, ancestor goddess of legend, had re-entered the world.


	17. 2-4

_Alderfen along the south of the Auric Bastion_

"What do you think of these stories?" Gelt was broken from his concentration by the voice of one of his acolytes. "Is it true that Sigmar has returned to us?" He could hear the desire and hope dripping like honey from his pupil's tone and so wished he could drink from it, but he was the Supreme Patriarch of the Colleges of Magic, the cold logic of Chamon coursed through him, and he had no time for stories.

He'd heard the rumours working along the bastion as everyone had. That Sigmar himself had come to earth to save them, that he had embodied a boy who wielded hammers as well as the god himself had. Or that he had instead sent a herald to walk among them and bring them hope. But he had also heard who had started these rumours and were spreading them. Luthor Huss.

Gelt always tried to limit his interactions with the Sigmarite Cult, the precarious balance between them and the colleges of magic was maintained by their very rivalry. He'd called them into assisting him with the Auric Bastion out of necessity alone, he needed the raw power of their faith to keep out the followers of Chaos, but their constant prattling could rarely be constructive, and fewer times was it useful. They whipped up angry mobs that could be turned into pogroms in a moment's notice their influence with the people, particularly in the south was so deep set it allowed them a control that even the Emperor couldn't claim to rival it. And Luthor Huss was the worst of them all, a wandering warrior priest, smashing skulls with his hammer, proclaiming it Sigmar's will while all the while hunting for some sign from the first Emperor, so radical that many from his own cult shunned him. Gelt would believe what came out of Luthor Huss's mouth when he saw it for himself, and he knew that Franz was the same, though he wouldn't be surprised if the Emperor had a hand in spreading the rumours of hope. The Emperor knew that hope warmed men in the night and kept them fighting when the cause was lost. If it was true, and some prophet had returned, then Franz could reap the full benefit, if it was not, then the rumours would keep hope alive while the less comfortable truth was quietly snuffed out.

"Perhaps it is," he replied. He said nothing else, Oratory was never his greatest skill and his voice, laced with metallic undertones, his face hidden behind a gold mask frozen in its cold aspect could rarely inspire hope. "But whether true or not we _must_ maintain the bastion." He turned his gaze out over the battlements of Alderfen's fortified central tower towards his most magnificent creation.

Only a mile away, the bastion rose, a grey great shield, enveloped in golden light, the power of Chamon was so great in that wall that he could almost taste it, the essence of the power wafting from the wall like the smell of freshly baked cakes from a bakery. But it wasn't perfect and ever since it had risen he had been rushing to and fro on Quicksilver, heading to every section of the wall that was under heaviest bombardment to reinforce it and assist the wizards and priests who strained under the effort of keeping them out. Which was why he was currently at Alderfen.

"The enemy assault has lessened." He informed the wizards and priests, arrayed in their circle. "You can return to maintaining the barrier."

He gradually shifted the winds of magic back to the wizards, the weight lifting off his shoulders like he was breaking the surface of a pond after having dived for too long. It seemed even the hordes of chaos could only maintain their constant bombardments for so long. "I will return, remain vigilant."

He swept off the top of the tower, away from the wizard's circle and descended into the castle. He only stopped when he found himself on a lonely stretch of wall facing south. "Leave me," he commanded the few guards of Ludenhof. Ever since he had raised the bastion men had leapt to follow his orders and soon enough he had the stretch of wall to himself. He rested the Staff of Volans against the wall, placed his golden gloved hands on the crenellations and let a breath pass from between his ruined lips. His head hung as he allowed himself a moment of pause. Moments like this would save the Empire, the brief moments to rest and the sights to remind him of why he was fighting. Ostland was dark and dreary, a heavy mist hung in the air, the frost blasted ground was hard and crisp and the bare branches of the many forests hung like jagged forests of spears. But it was the Empire, it was what he was fighting and it was what kept him going. For if he failed, if the wall was compromised, it would all burn.

"It is nothing like home."

His head snapped to the left where Katarin had emerged from within the castle. Her blue cloak of glittering crystals fluttering around her regally clad form. Even without a realm, Katarin was every bit a Tzarina, her sharp features held firm and strong, her ice blade securely strapped to her hip and her escort of four Kislevite riders at her back followed like obedient statues.

"Lady Tzarina," he replied, standing tall, a good head taller than Katarin, bowing his head in respect. He hadn't known that the Kislevites were stationed at Alderfen, but then as soon as he'd arrived he'd headed straight for the Wizard's circle.

"Supreme Patriarch," she returned the bow. With a wave she dismissed her guards. "How fares the wall?"

"As strong as ever," he replied stiffly. She was barely more discreet than the elf Teclis, who constantly inquired whenever their paths crossed. Teclis always wanting to override some of the magic and reinforce the barrier, but the barrier was of Chamon, Teclis may well be a greater mage than he could ever be, but the breadth of his skills meant that he couldn't hope to master Chamon in the necessary way to hold the wall. No, this was Gelt's task. "It will hold. It will hold until the horde of the archenemy breaks or devours itself in its unbridled rage, even an Everchosen can only keep their urges in check for so long."

"Then they will destroy what little remains of Kislev as they destroy themselves."

He would have winced if he were able behind his mask; that was insensitive of him. "Forgive me," he began.

"There is nothing to forgive," she replied firmly. "Kislev may be dead, but it's icy death throes will bring vengeance, even now the blizzards of Kislev reap their toll on the enemy." He could feel the strange magics of the Ice Queen whipping around her. At every moment she was causing shards of ice to slice through barbarian warriors, encasing daemons in ice and causing others who fall into sleep to freeze and never wake up. Right now, more than anyone else she was battling the armies of the Everchosen.

"Kislev lives while its people do," he told her, as gently as he could. "And my barrier will keep them safe along with everyone else."

"As long as you can hold it," she said, her icy blue eyes piercing into his own. He was glad for his mask, it meant he didn't have to hold her gaze.

"I _will_ hold it," he told her. "I will because I must, because if I don't then everything I have ever fought for is ended, everything that I lived for is nothing. If I fail the Empire will fall under the boot of this invasion, if I fail the last remnants of Kislev will be snuffed out and Bretonnia will be unable to look away any longer, the Dwarf Holds will be overwhelmed and even the Elves will ultimately fail. This is what happens if I fail."

"You won't," she assured him. He felt a gentle cold wrap itself around one forearm and looked down. Her thin pale fingers were holding his arm gently. "I know your power, I can feel it and I can see the faith that the armies of the Empire have in it. As long as these things hold, it will endure for a thousand years."

He was about to reply when her next words froze the words in his chest. "I believe in you."

He couldn't find his words and was thankful when the sound of armoured boots reached his ears. He snatched up the Staff of Volans and stood tall as Elector Aldebrand Ludenhof emerged, a long rifle resting on one shoulder, his Runefang at his waist and a hunting hawk perched on one shoulder. The tall and thin Elector, one of the best soldiers the Empire had bowed at the waist in respect to them. "Supreme Patriarch, Tzarina, it's good I have found you."

"What is it, Elector Aldebrand?" Katarin asked.

Aldebrand tossed something at their feet. The severed head of a minotaur, a bullet hole placed perfectly between its eyes. "The enemy are coming. Beastmen, a massive brayherd, with northern warriors in tow, survivors from our earlier battles I don't doubt. They make for this position."

"How many?" Katarin asked, her tone instantly professional and strong.

"Too many," Aldebrand replied. "My men are assembling for battle, we'll face them in the field, and I've sent word to the Emperor and other nearby regiments. General Otto and regiments from Talabecland have already arrived and are reinforcing our position. We have to hold out until the Emperor arrives."

Gelt was about to reply when a shot of pain went through his skull. "What is it?" Katarin asked, concern laced through her words.

"The wall," he grunted. "The enemy are attacking again and something... something comes." He could feel the approach of the brayherd, the sheer number of them causing ripples, and their shamans bringing a magical mass, hammers of madness swinging towards the wall from both sides told him exactly what this was meant to be. "This attack is meant to bring down the wall."

Castle von Rauken

The Emperor had taken Castle von Rauken as his seat, it was the most powerful fortress within striking distance of Gelt's Deliverance and was the best suited staging area for the greatest knights of the Empire to gather to react to any enemy attack. Around the castle, the great encampment of the Reiksguard stretched, horse lines a mile long with great barded destriers pawing at the ground for miles to come. Not only the Reiksguard but the puissant knightly orders of the Burning Heart and the Winter Throne had gathered too him, their horse lines separating from the Reiksguard like the prongs of a trident. Only the knights of Bretonnia could match such a display of knightly valour. Half the army of Reikland had gathered here as well, in a great field of tents decked in red and white housing regiments of swordsmen, spearmen and halberdiers, their weapons held on racks besides their tent, gleaming in the crisp morning light. Teamsters drove wagons between them, delivering the great agricultural supplies of the Empire to the armies on the front line. In the castle itself were the elite Greatsword Regiments, the Carroburg Greatswords were currently engaged in a grand melee with their bitter rivals, the Pale Blades, sparks flying as great weapons rang off each other and the steel plated limbs of their opponents. Every time Karl Franz began to doubt his chance of victory against the great hordes massing beyond Gelt's wall, he looked to this army and knew that where it stood, there was hope.

A knock on the door to his antechamber made him turn from the balcony. "Enter," he commanded.

His chamberlain entered, head bowed. "My Lord, Luthor Huss... demands an audience with you."

Franz nodded. He had been waiting for this, in time he knew that Huss would bring this Herald of Sigmar to him, just as he was certain he knew what the wandering prophet would demand.

"Show him in please."

When Huss entered the room he almost seemed to fill it out. "My Emperor," he said in greeting.

 _He remembers the title and address well enough_ , Franz thought, though the fact that Huss didn't kneel meant something. "You know why I have returned?"

Franz nodded. "I do, you believe that Sigmar has sent a herald to us?"

"I do not believe it, I know it, for I have looked upon him with my own two eyes."

"Have you?" Franz nodded.

Huss nodded. "I have, in this moment, the moment of darkness, where the forces of Chaos seem perched to destroy us all, Sigmar has not abandoned us. He is determined to save us yet."

 _Gelt's wall is what has saved us,_ Franz thought. But he knew saying that to Huss would only provoke unnecessary anger. So instead he asked. "And where is this herald?"

"Valten!" Huss called.

A man entered. A youth by any sense of the imagination, he could be twenty years old perhaps, though tall and strong and walking with the gait of a warrior, there was still a softness and innocence there that came with youth and an energy that a more experienced soldier may have tempered and harnessed. "Your majesty," the boy said, the very image of humility as he dropped to one knee.

"Rise," he said. Valten stood. "What makes you say that he is a herald of Sigmar?"

"Show him, Valten," Huss replied.

Valten nodded and pulled off his shirt. Franz's breath hitched, stretched purple across his chest was a birthmark, almost a completely perfect image of the Twin Tailed Comet, the comet that had heralded Sigmar's coming. "I can attest to his skills as a warrior, and his natural talents as a leader, why else would this boy have come. He is from Sigmar, and he is meant to lead us."

That drew Franz out of his preoccupation with the birthmark. Huss wanted to remove him and replace him with this boy. That could not happen. If this boy was Sigmar's chosen then he would no doubt prove a vital ally in the war to come. But to pass control of the Empire's armies to him would be too much change too quickly. While Sigmar was the dominant faith of the Empire, the Ulricans would not accept this so easily, nor would many Electors, who would see his stepping down as a chance to take the crown for themselves. And any one of those cracks in their defences could be the gap through which the forces of Chaos poured into the Empire.

For his part, Valten didn't say a word, and didn't look at all offended that Huss and Franz were debating what was happening without his input. "Luthor, I cannot hand control of the Empire's armies now. We stand at a delicate junction right now, too much imbalance will send the Empire reeling and that is all this Everchosen needs to destroy us."

"But-"

"No buts, Huss," Franz cut across him. He turned to Valten. "I thank you for your help, and if you wish to offer your aid to the Empire's armies then it is gladly accepted, but I cannot simply turn command of the Empire over to you."

"I will fight for the Empire, your majesty, that is all I require."

Huss looked furious but a hammering at the door caught all their attention. "Enter!"

Kurt Helborg entered. He glanced curiously at Valten and Luthor for a moment before shaking himself and turning again to Franz. "Sire, a messenger has just arrived from Count Aldebrand."

He nodded. "And what did it say?"

"A massive bray herd approaches Alderfen, where Gelt is currently stationed, with them come warriors from the warbands we have defeated in the early campaigns. Gelt himself says that the wall is under attack heavily from the north at Alderfen. Aid is called for."

"And it will be given, ready the army to march at once Kurt."

Kurt nodded and marched smartly from the room. Franz turned to Valten. "You wish to fight for the Empire?"

Valten nodded.

"Then march at my side."

 _The Battle of Alderfen_

Katarin gathered the ice into a yard long shard, it's tip sharper than any spear, and hurled it at the foes climbing Alderfen's southern wall. The white-blue shard shot through the air before punching through the tough hide of a minotaur scaling the walls. The vast mass of beasts was greater in number than the enemy horde that she had helped destroy at Lubrecht alongside the Emperor, sinew, slobber and cloven hooves enough to trample civilisation itself into dirt. Not only that but Count Aldebrand's army was smaller than the Emperor's had been. It was just the wrong size, too large to fit into Alderfen alone, but too small to realistically fight the horde alone. The count had set his men to defensive fortifications, digging a great ditch in a crescent in front of the castle that his men defended, close enough to the walls to hold back the enemy from the west and north while still being able to benefit from the artillery on Alderfen's walls, and whatever support Gelt's wizards could provide. Meanwhile she and her men were on the walls, protecting the artillery and wizards from the enemy that bypassed the Imperial army to try and get to them.

Somehow Aldebrand's forces were holding fast, on the southern flank of the line, spearmen and halberdiers from General Otto's Talabec forces held fast while Aldebrand's cavalry kept up a series of cycling charges and volleys of gunfire that kept the enemy on the back foot, while the main line of regimented swordsmen and spearmen dug their heels into the frosty earth and battled the enemy that crossed the ditch. Over their heads arcs of bolts glided into the bestial foes, felling gors by the dozens and hundreds and even from the castle walls, she could hear the crack of gunpowder weapons.

She turned away from the battle, Aldebrand knew what he was doing well enough, and she had to hold the walls, if the beasts got to Gelt then everything was done for. A herd of ungors was scaling the walls towards a turret with a Hellstorm Rocket Battery on top. Every barrage was vital to Aldebrand's success so she rushed to see to it. She pushed past men of the garrison, Fearfrost in hand. "Fire!" One gunnery sergeant said and his line of handgunners fired down at the beasts at the castle base. If they had any sense of strategy, the beasts that slipped past the army would have turned and outflanked Aldebrand's force, destroy the army outside before coming for the castle, but they seemed so drawn to Gelt, so focussed on the destruction of the wall of faith that they were sacrificing victory for it.

"Move!" She shoved the last of the gunners aside and raced for the battery, her men pounding behind her. The first of the ungors had clambered over the battlements and were battling the crewmen. "Kislev!" She roared, charging forward. She cut the first ungor in two, it's rotten guts spilling over the stones. Not stopping she charged forward at the next ungor that turned to her. It raised its crude spear, but it stood no chance, first Fearfrost took the head of the spear, then the head of the ungor, a great spurt of black blood spraying into the air. She ducked under the thrust of the next ungor, slashing upwards as she did so, cutting off both arms at the elbows, spinning with the momentum she brought her sword around in a wide arc, this time taking both its legs, she left it limbless and raced to the battlements to stop the flow at their source. With a blast of ice she knocked two more ungors off the walls to their deaths, as she reached the wall another ungor poked its foul head over the top and she cut through the top half of it and shoved it off. Katarin gathered the winds of winter to her and looked over at the swarming mass of ungors, hundreds of them clambering up the rough cut stone of Alderfen's walls, snarling up at her, red eyes gleaming. She pressed her palm to the wall and watched as every water droplet began to freeze and expand, a sheen of ice spreading across the stone and, suddenly bereft of grip, the entire herd tumbled to the earth in a pile of shattered and sundered limbs.

She turned, her soldiers had slaughtered off the last of the ungors that had made it to the top of the wall. "Keep watch, and get those rockets firing again."

"Yes, your highness," one of the rocket crewmen said, hurriedly helping his colleagues push the rocket back into place.

A sudden feeling rushed through her. Her magic was not like that of the Empire, it came from the land, but she could feel the shifts in the Winds of Magic focussing on the wall. Something was happening, she had to find Gelt. "Vladmir, hold the wall, I must find the Patriarch." Her loyal commander did not hesitate but started barking out orders in both the tongue of Kislev and gruff but understandable Reikspiel. She barged through the nearest door and rushed through the keep. Terrified castle staff huddled in the hallways, some praying to all the gods they could name some helping priestesses and ladies of Shallya with healing wounded men of the garrison who had been brought inside. Katarin rushed past them all, heading for the spiral staircase that would lead to the top turret. She took the stone steps two at a time, racing up and emerging at the wizard's circle.

Gelt was in the middle of the circle, raw power swirling around him as his fellow wizards tried to help him channel his power into the wall. "Supreme Patriarch it's too much!" one of the wizards screamed at their leader. "You can't keep this up!"

"Yes... I... can..." he grunted, the sheer effort of speaking nearly too much for him. "I... must... the Empire..." Balthazar swayed for a moment before falling to one knee, clutching his staff to try and stay upright. "I... must..." with a clatter the Supreme Patriarch fell to the ground, his staff rolling away from his limp fingers.

"Supreme Patriarch," one of the wizards cried out, but none of them rushed to his aid, they were all so focussed on their own spells.

"The bastion!" Cried another. A great crack rent the air and Katarin's eyes widened in fear, the bastion was beginning to break, a great crack shot down it from top to bottom. "We can't hold the bombardment from the other side!"

"We need more power!"

"We have nothing more to give!"

"Tzarina," one of them, a young beardless bright wizard, his red robes flapping around his shins like curtains in a gale. "Help us!"

She knelt down beside Gelt, this wasn't her construction, what could she do. Her offers of help had been to assist the Supreme Patriarch, not take over from him.

"Please my lady!" Screamed another wizard.

Balthazar was unmoving, he was alive, but the strain was too much. Another crack split the air and a great chunk of metal fell from the wall, the golden magical glow steaming off it like a recently quenched sword. She had to act, if the army on the other side of that wall could get through. _The fires roared, babes and mothers screamed as the butchers set upon them, Kislevite riders were dragged from their horses and butchered._

"Not here," she whispered. She stood over Balthazar's body and raised her hands to the bastion, gathering her power to her. Like a slingshot she hurled it at the wall – and staggered. The amount of power was unlike anything she had felt before, trying to hold it up was like trying to hold up a palace foundation with your arms alone.

She pushed her power into the wall, the ice forcing it's way beside the Wind of Chamon to hold back the tide of Chaos. The battle outside became nothing to Katarin, all that mattered was the magical onslaught and battle to hold up the wall.

 _The Battle of Alderfen – the north end of the Imperial line_

Franz saw the battlefield with horror and amazement. Horror was the enemy army, huge and sprawling, with no discipline but unmatched ferocity. Amazement was the sight of Aldebrand's battle lines, holding fast against the enemy, lightning attacks by horsemen kept the flanks secure while the ditch allowed his infantry the breathing room they needed to keep fighting and killing, though as the ditch filled up with the bodies of the slain it was getting easier for the enemy to cross it. Harpies and a few other creatures swarmed around the walls but they were holding strong.

"Down," he said and Deathclaw turned and dived towards his commanders. The army was unfurling like a paper swan, infantry and cavalry boiling over the hills to take up position on the northern flank, adding another line of death to the enemy horde.

He landed amidst his commanders: Helborg, his trusted Reiksmarshall, mounted on his barded warhorse, together with Ludwig Scwartzhelm, his personal champion; Luthor Huss and the boy Valten had been part of his personal entourage coming here and Boris Todbringer was bringing a detachment of his forces as well.

"Gentlemen, there is little time so let us begin. Kurt, I need you to take the right flank, stem the tide and make sure that we are not in turn outflanked by the enemy. Ludwig, you stand with me in the centre, we'll begin pushing in against the enemy."

"And where will our greatest champion come in?" Luthor demanded, indicating Valten.

Valten and Huss had amassed quite a following in their travels, the boy's inherent charisma winning friends easily. He could speak to Nordlanders and men from Averland in their own dialects and accents, he listened to all their stories and had broken bread with each of them. It had been peculiar to see the muscled peasant boy, his blacksmith's hammers at his waist dining with men in full noble and battle regalia as though he belonged there, but there seemed o be nowhere that he did not fit in. And now he spoke. "If I may, Count Aldebrand's army is no doubt becoming weary from the battle, I would go and assist him if I may."

Franz nodded. It was the best use for him. "Go then, Valten. Boris, go with him." The Elector of Middenland nodded. Franz wasn't about to send this boy out without an experienced commander, and Boris had been a veteran of many battles and wars, especially against the Beastmen.

As Helborg and Boris barked out their orders to their men and the tremors of thousands of imperial feet shook the ground, Franz took to the air again. From the skies he saw that already a great mass of beastmen had turned in his direction and was charging his forming army. Aldebrand's host was still struggling to hold the enemy back, the castle was under attack and a mist to the south hung as a great grey backdrop.

Battle of Alderfen – South end of the Imperial line

Otto grunted in effort as he held back an enemy warrior. Clad in the armour of the warriors of chaos accompanying the brayherd. His sword arm juddered as their locked blades ground and sparked against each other. Grunting in effort he pushed the warrior back and took a step back himself, falling back into a defensive fencing stance. "Come filth," he challenged. The warrior attacked again, it's huge crude blade coming around in a tight arc. He guided it away with his longsword ducking under the next blow and checking the one after it. Every time his foe's ferocity gave him an opening he struck himself, ringing a blow of it's heavy armour, but unable to find flesh and bone.

The warrior came at him again, a heavy strike coming down on him. He twisted to the side and the heavy black metal sliced through the frost bitten earth and was stuck fast. He moved in to deal with the now prone warrior but the warrior struck him with a heavy backhand and he fell to the ground. Blinking the pain away and spitting a mouthful of blood on the dirt, he scrambled backwards as the now weaponless warrior advanced on him. He reached for his belt. "Die scum!" He whispered and drew his father's pistol, one that had claimed many the life of a foe of Talabheim. He fired and the bullet caught his foe's helmet, jerking its head back like it had been kicked by a horse. Seizing his chance he pulled himself to his feet and drew his dagger, driving it up under his foe's now exposed chin. The warrior spasmed a few times before falling to the ground. Otto retrieved his sword. "For Talabheim!" He roared and led the Stalwarts, an elite regiment of Talabheim Greatswords on the counter attack that drove this latest wave of beasts and warriors back across the trench.

"Reform!" He ordered and his greatswords pulled back allowing halberdier regiments to take their place as his gunners and crossbowmen readied themselves and another herd of enemies got ready to swarm the trench. These regiments were fresh, he'd been cycling them throughout the battle, every time a wave of enemy warriors was driven back and gave him breathing space he would rest his units and put the rested on the front line. So far it had worked, but he wondered how much longer it could be sustained, but determined to do what he could for it to hold. "You've done well so far men, I am proud of you, as your count would be. Talabheim would be proud of you, every one of you deserves to have your name etched into the crater walls of that city. Before this day I had eight brothers, but now I would be proud to name every one of you as my brother."

He approached a spearman sat on the ground in the reserve, his helmet discarded and hands blistered from using the spear so long. He took the man by the shoulders, "on your feet," he said and pulled him up. "We have battles to fight yet." He continued down the line, reassuring his men that they still stood strong and victory was still theirs to claim as long as they held firm.

He got to the far south of the line as a dozen worn knights rode back, weary from their latest sortie.

A grey wizard clad in shadowy robes with a wide brimmed hat helped to anchor the line here and had proven useful in tearing apart herds of gors and ungors and keeping the far flank of the army secure. The wizard made him uncomfortable so he passed him by with just a nod of respect. He looked out over the southern expanse, a great reach of plains with a heavy mist blanketing the horizon. He paused. There had been a farmstead visible the last time he was on this flank. Now it was gone, concealed by the mist. He looked up at the flags on Alderfen, all flapping heavily to the south. The mist was coming fast... against the wind.

"Form up! Battle line, refuse the flank."

His men, confused but obedient, formed up in heavy ranks, a deep regiment of spearmen shoulder to shoulder protecting the flank of the main army. "What is it General?" Captain Markus asked.

"The mist," he replied. "Wizard!"

Like a shadow the wizard appeared at his shoulder. "What is it?"

"That mist, is it magical." The wizard held out his hand for a few seconds. "Yes, a spell of concealment, so large yet... so subtle. Impressive."

"Deal with it."

The wizard murmured and a great ripple shot through the mist but it stayed put. He paused and spoke another incantation, the mist shook and thinned. He could see shapes moving in its midst, but nothing certain yet. With the third attempt the wizard shattered apart the mist, which rose like steam and soon had vanished and Otto felt his heart sink.

A wall of bone and tattered cloth was approaching them. A great line of undead horsemen bearing down on the battle.

"Sigmar preserve us!" Cried one spearman, his legs shaking.

"Hold fast!" Otto called out to them all. "Hold fast and dig in, as Sigmar fought undead and the spawn of Chaos, so shall we. Hold fast to your duty. Brace yourselves and fight as you have never fought before. Let it never be said that any army of the Empire fought harder than you on this day, even if should last another thousand years!"

"Sigmar!" His officers yelled, a battlecry taken up by every soldier on the flank.

But something was happening. They weren't coming for him or his men. With the concealing mist banished they sped up, forming a great fist. The knuckles of this fist were red armoured vampire warriors, the dreaded Blood Knights. At the very front were two warriors in archaic aristocratic armour, their faces shining with cold nobility, a man with flowing silver hair and red eyes and a woman with bright blonde hair and blood red lips. They slid across their saddles until they were barely holding on to their steeds and shared a deep kiss. When they slid back into their saddles they raised their swords and smashed into the bestial army.

 _The Battle of Alderfen – Centre of the Imperial battle line_

His blood pumped in his ears as he cut down the foul beasts of the Drakwald that had pursued him even here. To most, the differing beasts that haunted the forests and hills of the Empire were indistinguishable, one slavering gor looked just like to another them. But Boris knew the Drakwald beasts as one would know their regular fencing partner, the wild ferocity, the slight hook to the tips of the barbed blades – these were the beasts of Khazrak's herd.

He had dismounted before the trench, he and his White Wolf knights joining the men of Hochland's army in throwing waves of enemies back beyond the trench. But Boris had another goal, he had seen the cruel whip called Scourge, the great curved horns and the wide jagged blades. Khazrak was coming to the front line, pulled on a great chariot by two powerful razergors. "ONE EYE!" He roared as the army reformed to face this latest, greatest charge.

Even in the face of the ditch, Khazrak didn't stop, he hurtled forwards, driving his beasts onwards. They charged right into the ditch, impaling themselves on the sharpened stakes Count Aldebrand's men had driven into the ground. Khazrak was not halted like a lesser beast lord, nor was he even paused. As the ugly wooden chariot lurched forward after it's slain riders he leapt high, his silouete briefly blocking out the sun before he landed with a great swing of his blade, cutting down a knight in one blow. It let out a roar that stunned the imperials and inspired the beasts, who roared to the skies and followed their master. Great Minotaurs hewed the stakes apart and masses of gors followed on afterwards.

"Hold fast!" Todbringer roared in reply and the army dug their heels in, waiting for the charge to hit.

It came as a sledgehammer but the imperial line held despite it all. He slashed at the enemy with his sword, with each stroke a beast fell slain, not even the toughest hide able to stand against the Runefang of Middenland. He fought on, carving a path through the horde in the direction of the One Eye. This was his chance to end the beast that had taken his eye and shamed him in the eyes of the other Electors, and he would have his revenge.

Soon he'd cut his way through the herd to confront the One Eye, who turned to him. It was holding a knight up by the head and when the eye that Boris had left it found him it roared. He knew that roar, one of eagerness and delight that came whenever the beast's little brain worked out that the two of them were to cross blades once more.

With a gesture the beast's bodyguards turned to the battle, leaving the two of them alone, the eye of the storm, alone to their vengeance.

They launched themselves at each other, two paragons of their people, Boris' Runefang flashing and dancing through the air, checking and deflecting the wild and heavy blows of Khazrak. Each warrior had only one eye, but that eye knew the other's movements like nothing. Boris knew that the slight raising of the neck was a lure to bring him in range of Khazrak's horns and Khazrak knew that Boris' most dangerous attacks came from the left. The Elector of Middenland saw the familiar flick of the wrist that came before the whip lashed at his feet to upend him and leave him prone, some quick footwork put him back on the offensive.

They fought to and fro, the advantage shifting from one to another as the tides of battle washed all around them. In the end the stalemate would not be broken by either of them. Instead, Vangaar, the warlord charged to lead the warriors of Chaos by the Everchosen himself, waded into the battle, the chance to claim the head of one of the Electors of the Empire was too much and suddenly Boris found himself on the defensive, desperately trying to ward off the blows from the two champions of chaos. But soon a cloven hoof found his chest and he was cast to the ground, his Runefang slipping from his fingers. The battle raged as Khazrak approached, a malignant gleam in his eye as he prepared to claim his final victory.

But as he raised his blade a flash of gold forced him back and in an instant a figure stood over the Elector Count. "Back foul thing, I swear by Sigmar, take another strike at Count Boris and I will strike you in turn!" Valten swore, his twin hammers held tightly, his common shirt ripped to show the twin commet birthmark on his chest. At the sight of the sign of Sigmar, both champions of Chaos fell into the darkest rage and charged at him. Boris could only watch transfixed. He was not a sheltered child, he knew that battle was a bloody, ugly affair, but Valten met the two champions blow for blow. His hair shone in the light of fires, his voice cracked through the din of battle and his roars of righteous fury lit a fire in the belly of the Elector count. In the darkness of the battle he glowed with a pale golden light.

Boris was, as many Middenlanders were, a strict Ulrican, but even he could not help but feel the surety of faith when this boy bearing Sigmar's mark leapt into battle in defence of the Empire.

When Vangaar struck again, Valten was ready, he raised both hammers, arms spread like a griffon's wings, and then brought them down on either side of Vangaar's blade with such force that it shattered, shards of dark metal scattering to the ground. With a flash, Valten drove a hammer into Vangaar's face, dropping him to the ground before bringing his other down on the chaos champion's helmeted head. Even as the cries of a rallying Imperial counterattack washed over him, Boris could hear the crack of Vangaar's helmet beneath the force of Valten's blow.

Valten turned to face the One Eye who roared in bestial rage and attacked. Against the great strength of the beastlord, Valten was forced backwards, one of his hammers was sundered and he fell to one knee. Khazrak raised his whip and lashed at Valten's neck. But the boy's arm snapped up, caught the end of the whip and held it fast.

Khazrak tugged but Valten held firm, readying his feet. Then Khazrak pulled one last time, with all his strength and hurled through the air. It was to be Khazrak's last mistake. Valten twisted out of the way of the beastlord's crude strike and lashed out with his hammer, the crude blacksmith's tool smashing into the skull of the beastlord and holding firm. Khazrak swayed for a moment before it fell to the ground and Valten stood over his body in triumph.

Like a battlecry, Valten's name roared from the throats of every Imperial. With the flash of cannons and the savage zeal of the Imperials, the Empire line surged forward, driving the barbarians and beastmen back.

Surrounded on three sides and suddenly leaderless, the army of Chaos behind the bastion was trapped and slaughtered in a day of bloodshed.

 _After the Battle_

After most battles the victorious armies celebrated, cheered their victories, drank to the memories of fallen friends and allowed themselves respite. But not this time. The armies of the Empire held to their arms, stayed strong in their formations ready if necessary to do battle once more with the army of the dead, that had come from nowhere and assaulted the beastmen in the south, their arrival allowing the trapping of the beastmen horde and its total slaughter.

Now the undead stood opposite them, cold ranks of skeletal warriors and armoured vampires that were just as ready for battle.

Karl Franz stepped across the battlefield, Ghal Maraz in hand. From the undead another solitary figure came. A face of pristine nobility with silver hair falling to his shoulders, a deadly sword held in his hand, the black blood of the beastmen it had slain being absorbed by the blade. And the ring worn proudly on its finger. Franz had seen it's like before, in tapestries and descriptions, the ring that had brought the Empire to its knees. The ring of Vlad von Carstein. This could only be the legendary Vampire Count of Sylvania.

They stopped meters apart, staring each other in the eyes. "Von Carstein." He said, finally.

"Emperor Franz," Vlad replied.

They spoke between two armies ready to fight the other, the other that they had long seen as their perpetual enemy, the enemy that would see them utterly destroyed. Both sides withdrew from the field as the darkness fell. No alliance had been forged from the century long hatred, but Vlad and Franz knew that the true enemy, in this moment the only enemy that mattered lay beyond the wall, and so the living and the dead formed a temporary truce against their greater foe.

 **A/N: Okay, so having done some thinking, I've decided to split the story after the end of this book and tackle areas geographically, this way I can weave a better flow rather than trying to balance it all at the same time, especially as we're going to start venturing to far more places and storylines are going to take longer. In terms of the order, it doesn't really matter which way they come out so I'm open to your opinion about which areas/races you would like to see coming up first. The outlined stories are:**

 **The Plan of the Old Ones; featuring Lizardmen and Skaven**

 **The Ancestral Grudge; featuring Dwarfs, Chaos Dwarfs, Skaven, Greenskins and Ogres**

 **The Everchosen's Wrath; back in the Old World with the Empire, Bretonnia, Wood Elves and the von Carstein vampires**

 **The Last War; High Elves and Dark Elves**

 **The Wars of the Dead; Tomb Kings, Skaven and Neferatta's vampires**

 **Then we'll bring it all back together for one last book for the climax: The War for the Old World**

 **If anyone has a preference for which story they'd like to see first, do let me know, I'm happy to shift which way around I write them depending on demand.**


	18. 2-5

_Bretonnia – Northern Bordeleaux_

This was a country ravaged by war. On their march north west, Aliathra had gone from wide spread vineyards and tall white castles to burnt out husks of villages and mass graves. Crude wooden boards hammered into the ground over the grave sites, crudes images of cups carved onto it. The castles they came across now were clad with extra wooden hoardings, archers on the walls and pits dug to disrupt the possible approach of siege towers. Catching sight of the small column of armoured elves, the few refugees on the road scattered, leaving the path towards Mousillon clear, where King Louen Leoncouer had trapped the rebels in the cursed dukedom.

But they met the first force of the Bretonnian army half a day away from the front line. As they were crossing a wide open plain towards the hills on the border between Bordeleaux and Mousillon the knight of Bretonnia boiled over the top, spreading down the green sides of the hills in a carpet of colour.

Aliathra had never seen such beauty in a war host before. An army of the Asur gleamed in silver and gold, but the great lance of knights coming towards them came in all colours, grey, silver, gold, green, magenta, blue and white were just some of the colours in the great blur of shields and caparisons. Most knights held a great lance in his hand that rose to the sky like outstretched hands, small flags fluttering from the end, but she saw that one large formation of knights had forsaken their lances, instead they carried huge two handed swords and axes.

The knights split into two great wings that encircled the outnumbered Asur force and sealed them inside. Korhil's men readied their axes and Tyrion drew Sunfang, the blade wreathing in flame. Her mother summoned her power. Even outnumbered as they were, the Asur were more than powerful enough to fight their way past these knights if needed, but that wasn't why they were here. "Stay your blade Prince Tyrion," she said, resting her hand on his arm gently and urging her steed forwards.

The line of knights parted and a powerful rider came forward, riding a great destrier and commanding the authority of the knights. He reached up and removed his helmet revealing a noble face, lined and weathered from war but still demonstrating more noble disdain than Aliathra had seen in all her time in her father's court. "You are crossing a country at war," he called out to them, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword. "In the name of King Louen, you will reveal your intentions, or we will strike you down, here and now!" As one the surrounding knights lowered their lances.

"Peace my lord," Aliathra said, nudging her horse forward, holding up her hand. "My name is Aliathra, I am the Everchild, the daughter of Phoenix King Finubar the Seafarer of Ulthuan, and I wish no harm for your king, only words for him."

"Everchild," the leading knight sat back in his saddle. "My good friend Tancred of Quenelles ventured forth to rescue someone by that title just before the civil war began. You are she?"

She nodded. "I am. Only through the sacrifice of Duke Tancred am I still alive, he saved my life, and in preventing the return of Nagash, he has also saved the world. I wish to bring my thanks to King Louen in person."

"King Louen is busy directing the war against the traitors, he cannot entertain embassies at this time." The knight sighed. "But for the soul of Duke Tancred, I will take you to him."

"I thank you," Aliathra replied humbly. "I assure you we will not impede your war effort."

"What is your name, sir?" Her mother asked.

The knight looked at her, frozen for but a moment in her mother's pure beauty, then shook himself. "I am Duke Huebald of Carcassonne, and my men and I will escort you to Mousillon, where the last battle in this blasted war is to take place."

At the Duke's signal, the circle of knights split into two columns flanking the elven formation and they began their march north.

Wanting to learn what she could of what had happened in Bretonnia before she met the king, Aliathra nudged her horse forward towards the Duke's. Conversation let many things slip, her father had often told her, use it freely and have a tight net to catch whatever may slip out. "You said the last battle of the war," she said to Huebald as they turned onto a northbound road. "It is progressing well then?"

Huebald regarded her cautiously, then nodded. "It is now, though for some time it wasn't. Three Dukes have fallen to the war so far, four this past year when noble Tancred is included. The first casualty was Duke Adalhard of Lyonesse, the first target of the rebels. He charged to meet them in battle hoping to take the rebels before they were fully prepared. Alas this meant he went without his full force and he was ambushed and killed, without his leadership, the forces of Lyonesse were swiftly defeated. Following this, the Bastard lead an invasion of Bastonne, not just fallen knights but champions of the dark powers as well. Duke Armand of Aquitaine attempted to aid them, he crossed the Forest of Chalons and challenged the Bastard to a duel, but he was slain. Armand's army retreated. Duke Alberic of Bordeleaux took command of them and checked the rebel to the south, but most of Bastonne lay open to invasion and Duke Bohemond died defending his land. Thankfully the enemy forces were soon stopped. A dwarf host from the Grey Mountains came to the aid of Bastonne, and, together with Duke Alberic's force, were able to defeat the enemy at the battle of River Grismerie. At the same time King Louen led the knights of the north to retake Lyonesse and march south to Mousillon, I joined the army of Duke Alberic at this time, having dealt with the incurions into my own realm in the south, and we marched north. We joined the king and met the Bastard in battle at Castle Rachard, there, despite many casualties, we broke the Bastard and he and his army fled back to the safety of Mousillon, where the King has put him under siege."

"What are you doing so far south, if the enemy is bottled up in Mousillon?" She asked him, lacing her tone with curiosity so as not to suggest that she was calling him craven.

"The army to the south was defeated, but not annihilated, I have been rooting out the last holdouts I can find," Huebald explained, "we don't want to be trampling flowers from this revolt over the next five decades."

She nearly replied that that was no time at all, but remembered that humans' lifespans were not those of the Asur. "Certainly not," she said instead.

Not wanting to risk angering him with too many questions he might consider impertinent, Aliathra fell back to the rest of her kin for the journey to the warfront.

Even by human standards, Aliathra had been a child the last time she truly saw war, and even then, her father's bodyguards had kept her safely away from harm. The sight of the Bretonnian army stretched out over the field before Mousillon, against a backdrop of dark grey cloud, took her breath away.

Across the vast plain a long trench encircled the city, deep and lined with stakes, behind which men at arms stood with their tall shields showing the heraldry of every duchy and a hundred lords from beneath them. Further back was the ranged line, thousands and thousands of longbowmen protected from any retaliation by sharpened stakes driven into the ground. And on the bluffs and mounds stood tall wooden trebuchets, sending great boulders and flaming shots hurtling through the air, smashing into or flying over the great dark walls and into the cursed city. Every now and then an eldritch blast of purple and pink energy arced back at them, but they were few and far between. Even from here she could see the specs in the sky of knights riding pegasi and Hippogriffs duelled the flying foes of the enemy to clear the skies for the coming assault. Behind the siege lines were the knights. As they passed through the great tents and pavilions of the knights and dukes she saw knights of all kinds. Young and brash Knights Errant tilted lances at the lists while others boasted about claiming the heads of the bastard and his top men. The more experienced Knights of the Realm held back, testing their sword arms which would be far more useful than lances in the city streets or passed orders onto their subordinates and squires, sending them running to and fro with messages and supplies. They glanced at the Asur with suspicion as they passed, uncertain of the foreigners in the midst of their pride and chivalry.

She watched as one knight lined up his horse facing four men at arms with locked shields and spears and charged. Before he even reached them they broke and scattered to the floor. "No!" the knight cried, pulling his horse to a halt before he trampled his own soldiers. "You must hold. Again!" He deftly turned his horse and rode along the grass as his men at arms formed up again. Many of the knights watching the display sniggered. Why did the Bretonnians rely on such feeble infantrymen? She was no warrior, but even she could tell that they were barely suitable soldiers. Strange, given that their knights were clearly sublime riders and fighters.

"Hold!" Duke Huebald called and they held their horses fast.

Then she heard another voice call out. "Make way for Calard d'Garamont, Castellan of Bastonne, Slayer of Duke Merovech of Mousillon!"

A rabble of filthy peasants paraded past, relics ranging from fingerbones and tatters of cloth to shining coins and etched pendants. In the midst of them was a powerful warrior, a knight strapping and tall, his armour seeming to shine with holy light, just as Duke Tancred had when he'd torn his way through the fell barrier of Arkhan the Black. "A Grail Knight," she breathed. Outside of the battlefield he looked more impressive than Tancred had, tall and proud and noble, his face was thin and brave, his eyes aglow with fey light and his hair shining in the gloomy darkness of the cloudy day.

"Indeed," replied Duke Huebald. "Calard d'Garamont, one of our greatest heroes."

The knight Calard paused his horse as he passed, looking at the Asur with interest. He locked eyes with her momentarily before inclining his head in respect and setting off once again, his rabble of a retinue following him closely. She saw even the most proud of knights bow become mollified and utterly respectful as one who had sipped from the grail passed by.

"Come," Duke Huebald said, beckoning her to follow him through the camp.

They approached the largest tent in the camp, red and blue emblazoned with golden lions. Outside a great hippogryph, larger than her brother's eagle had been, indeed any of the great eagles of Ulthuan, was resting, armoured in heavy plate and with great cloth spread over its hind quarters. It eyed the Asur as they passed, it's vision unfaltering. "Wait here," Duke Huebald said, dismounting elegantly. "I will inform the King that you are here."

Aliathra dismounted her horse, Tyrion and her mother doing the same, their escort staying close, weapons ready for anything, who knew what this king's temperament was when being interrupted at war.

They waited awkwardly, knights passing them eyed them warily, while men at arms kept their weapons ready in the presence of the tall, strangely armoured elves.

With a rustle, Duke Huebald emerged from the tent. "The King would be honoured to meet the one noble Duke Tancred sacrificed his life to save. You may enter."

"If she goes," Tyrion said, stepping in front of her. "I go with her."

"Tyrion," Alarielle warned him, resting her fingers on his wrist. "Don't coddle her. She's come this far, let her go."

Tyrion didn't look like he approved of Alarielle's choice, but he stepped aside. She smiled at him as she walked by. "I'll be fine, Prince Tyrion."

She followed Duke Huebald into the tent.

Aliathra hadn't been surrounded by so many warriors of noble aspect since the busiest days of her father's court. The Dukes and noble knights present exuded regal nobility with every pore of their faces and the far end of the wide table with an intricate map of Mousillon castle and town stretched across it. Across from her stood the king, tall, proud and handsome, with a crown set into a protective helmet on his head, shining armour clad around his form and a beautiful scabbard holding a sword at his waist, his great cloak held at the shoulders by two golden lion heads. "So," he said, his tone soft and diplomatic "this is the Princess of Ulthuan, the Everchild Aliathra, whom Duke Tancred gave his life to save." He walked around the table until he was standing before her. Humans were typically shorter than the elongated elves, but King Louen stood half a head taller than her. Her father had made her study other lands' histories, she knew that King Louen was well over ninety years old, which was quite an age for a human, and yet he still showed the vigour of youth, his moustache black and shiny and a warm smile behind his eyes. The strange magics of the grail, unknown to the Asur, prolonged the lives of the greatest Bretonnian knights, many in the White Tower would give a great deal to learn what it was.

"I wanted to pass on my thanks in person, to you and to all of Bretonnia for my life and safety," she said to him, looking the king directly in the eye. "I owe you a deep personal debt, and Ulthuan owes you as well." The line of the Everqueens had never been broken before. True, her parents could conceive another child, but in the darkest moments the surety of the line of Isha had ensured that the Elves continued. It was that line that had kept the title of Phoenix King from the hand of Malekith, when Yvraine, Aenarion's daughter from his first marriage had agreed to wed Bel Shannar and unite the peoples of Ulthuan under him. The pride of the Asur would not let them give thanks to humans on their own, but she could. She dropped to one knee before King Louen and bowed her head. "I offer you my aid and assistance in the battle to come, with whatever power I can bring you."

She heard some of the Dukes mutter behind the king, but took no heed. She felt a gentle hand on her arm, the king helped her back to her feet. "I know an oath made in honesty when I see one, my lady, but I am afraid that I must turn down your aid on this occasion. Bretonnia has been ravaged, but there is none to blame but myself. I let my bastard son run amok for too long, he took control of Fell Mousillon, it's necromancers and the beasts that defy Morr's will, and he has brought the ruinous powers to Bretonnia's shores in numbers not seen since the horde of Egil Styrbjorn. Mallobaude is my responsibility and the responsibility of the Bretonnians, and this is a matter we must settle for ourselves."

She had learnt enough at her father's hand to know when someone's mind was made up. "I understand," she said, bowing her head. "My offer of assistance still stands, if ever Bretonnia needs my assistance, only ask and I shall come, with all the strength I can bring."

King Louen nodded. "I will hold you to your oath, Princess Aliathra. But for now, you have had quite the journey, and you still bear the scars of your torment," he gestured to her throat. "I invite you to make use of my tent while I see to Mousillon. Duke Alberic!"

One of the Dukes stepped forward, a middle aged man in blue and yellow, with a trident on his shield. "My King."

"See that the final preparations are readied. We begin the assault at dawn. Mousillon will fall, and then we turn our attentions to the enemy assaulting Franz's realm."


	19. 2-6

_Castle von Raukev - Ostland_

"I don't see that there is a debate to be had, that we have spoken so long on the matter already is an affront to Sigmar!" cried Arch Lector Kaslain, his voice ringing off the great hall of Castle von Raukev into every ear so no one missed a single syllable. "The beasts are here before us, let's kill them and be done."He raised his hammer, pointing it at Vlad von Carstein and his vampiric retinue. For their part, confronted by five hundred of the Empire's leading generals, priests and wizards, the Vampires seemed entirely unphased by Kaslain's demands. Vlad stood at the front of them, his wife Isabella close behind him, with their attendants and leading followers, though they were outnumbered more than five to one by the Imperials and Dwarfs.

More than a few shouted out their support for the Arch Lector who, following the death of Volkmar the Grim was the acting voice of the Cult of Sigmar. Those who spent their lives closest to the Sylvanian border were the loudest, the Count Wolfram Hertwig of Ostermark, Alberich Haupt-Anderssen of Stirland and the various claimants to the title of Count of Averland were all united in this regard. But while they were inspired, others were less so. General Otto of Talabecland shook his head slightly and Count Aldebrand was silent. Hochland was arguably the weakest and poorest of the states of the Empire, yet Aldebrand's tenacious defence of Alderfen and his actions in securing Ostland at the beginning of the chaos invasion had propelled him to the fore of the Empire's defence, and his word carried significant weight.

It was all an annoyance to Gelt, all the Arch Lector's shouting achieved was to irritate him further than he had been when he'd received this ridiculous summons. He had the greatest magical barrier to oversee and the safety of the Empire was in his hands, yet here he was to watch as the Empire's finest decided what to do about the fact that the undead themselves had recognised the threat the world was under.

"Silence!" Called the Emperor clearly. "Arch Lector, the floor has been yours, now it must be given to another. Grand Master Hans Leitdorf, the floor is yours."

The Grand Master of the Knights of Sigmar's Blood, who had accompanied the undead north, stood and made his way to the centre of the hall where he could address the entire room. He cleared his throat. "Since I came of age, I have watched the border of Sylvania, by the blood of my knights has the Empire been kept safe. I led the Empire's armies in the recent assault through Sylvania to stop the return of the Great Necromancer alongside our noble Dwarfen, Bretonnian and Elven allies. At the end of it all, _he_ had returned," he pointed at Vlad von Carstein, "and without him, I would be a thrall to Nagash, we all likely would be. Whatever else his crimes, he let our armies depart, honouring his promise not to raise our fallen brothers as soldiers in the war to come and immediately made his armies ready to come and aid us against the Great Enemy. One year past and I would be joining my voice to the Arch Lectors, demanding his head to end his threat once and for all. But now I know the cost in blood would be high, and that we have another enemy against whom we must spend it. Today, Vlad von Carstein has proven himself an ally, and against this enemy, we must needs make alliances with any we can in order to save our world."

Murmurs shot around the room at the Grand Master's proclamation. "At last someone speaks sense," Katarin muttered.

He glanced down at the Tzarina who was sitting beside him, just to the right of the Emperor. She'd all but refused to leave his side since the battle. He'd been amazed that she'd managed to sustain his barrier for so long after his mind had slipped in the maelstrom of battle. Now he knew how Kislev had survived so long in its perilous geographical location, if all its Ice Queens had the power that Katarin could wield then it was no wonder they had been able to fend off so many invasions by the ruinous powers. Her requests to assist him had fallen silent though. After shouldering the wall for several hours, she hadn't asked to take up that burden again. He wasn't surprised, it was his wall, only he knew all the intricacies of Chamon that went into it, not even the Elf mage would be able to manage it like he could. Teclis was also present at the Emperor's side, but he was silent in this meeting, watching the vampires intently, but giving nothing away.

"If we make an alliance with the undead, our souls will not be worth saving," declared Emil Vangeir, the Ar-Ulric. If the cults of Sigmar and Ulric were united then something was often decided. Often Gelt had watched Franz force policy in the cracks between the two cults, it seemed if he wished to enforce his will, that path was closed to him.

"If we fall to the forces of Chaos, our souls are worse than damned," said Aldebrand Ludenhof, stepping forward. Franz nodded to him and he moved into the middle of the hall. "My son is in Nuln, my daughter is home in Hergig, and I am here not to fight for my soul, but for their lives. At Alderfen, the undead fought the hordes of chaos in an effort to protect our homes. For that at least, they have my thanks, and if they can lend their strength to our own, I will accept it in the war against chaos."

He received a good round of applause and cheers before returning to his own seat.

Arch Lector Kaslain did not take that lightly. "It will be our faith that sees us victorious, we sully it by even considering this alliance!" The faithful roared their support.

"Is this to decide what to do about the vampires or who is the next Grand Theogonist?" He murmured. Katarin snorted her approval of the comment.

"It is not faith that keeps the wall up, it is the Supreme Patriarch's power."

If all the eyes hadn't turned to him after the young wizard's comment he would have hung his head and sighed. He'd attended because it was his place, but of course he couldn't just sit through it before returning to the wall, he'd have to get involved in the pointless debate. He appreciated the comment on his powers, but it was not welcome at this point.

"The wall would not be possible without the faith's support," Gelt replied from his seat.

"Since when did our faith extend to walls?" Demanded Luthor Huss angrily. "Our faith should be in the steel and gunpowder of our armies, not a wall entirely of the creation of the Supreme Patriarch."

"Kislev had soldiers and my land has fallen, you have a great wall and the Empire still lives," Katarin declared, "do not doubt the power of the Supreme Patriarch's wall, it is keeping you safe."

"The Supreme Patriarch is powerful, but he does not have the power of Sigmar!"

"The Supreme Patriarch-"

"Is sitting right here!" Gelt declared, propelling himself to his feet angrily, he'd had enough of this. He strode out into the centre of the room. "Let those who have doubts about my wall speak now, I will answer any who doubt me." A silence colder than his golden mask met his answer. "As I thought. You are all of you ready to criticise and doubt so long as the doubter is silent in turn. That, Luthor is what has made you so certain, because few others can will themselves to deny you your incontrovertible truths, and those that can have other matters of life and death to deal with, so you continue on your hopeless path forever and ever, alone, and soon forgotten when you have passed. And the rest of you, you look at my wall, the wall that you take for granted and doubt me because I don't profess endless faith in Sigmar. My aspect is frozen to you, you see me as cold and detached but you forget that my wall is what is keeping you safe. My wall! The faith empowers it by I made it, I brought it into being, and as my fellow wizard said, it is through my efforts that it still stands today. It is this wall that allows you to train and drill yourselves to perfection rather than spending your blood to keep the foe at bay. It is my wall that keeps the forces of Chaos from our lands, that keeps them from ravaging your lands, raping your wives and daughters and roasting your children on spits over fires. Yet you sit there and judge me when-"

"Supreme Patriarch." Teclis's voice cut across him and Gelt realised that he had started shouting. The Loremaster tapped his staff on the ground and Gelt felt a weight lift from him. The magic he hadn't realised he was gathering had been dispersed by Teclis who was looking at him with eyes that radiated wisdom and power that Gelt could never hope to achieve.

"I think you had best get some air, Supreme Patriarch." Franz said.

"Gladly." Gelt replied, suddenly weary. "By your leave, my Emperor."

"It is given." Gelt turned and marched to the great oaken doors of the hall, feeling a thousand eyes staring at him as he left but paying no heed to them. He would continue to defend the Empire, as was his place. They could continue to take shelter behind the magnificence of his wall, as was theirs.

Katarin watched Gelt leave, concerned. The weight on his shoulders, it was like nothing she had ever experienced before. How he was doing so much alone so would perhaps never understand. But she understood one thing well enough, if he kept driving forward, a single golden light in the darkness, he would gutter and fail, he needed help and he needed to accept that he needed it.

When the doors closed behind Gelt, Franz stood. The Emperor had listened, and now he would speak his piece. "This talk of Gelt's wall is for another time and another place. Right now we have other matters to talk of. Do we accept the aid of Vlad von Carstein and his undead armies, or do we not?"

The voice that replied was not an Elector, Imperial General, Lector or Wizard. Instead it was Vlad himself. "In the elder days, it was customary for the accused to be given a chance to speak. If this is still the Empire of Sigmar, then I would demand that right."

There was outrage in an instant. The clamour shook the hall like a thousand blacksmiths working on a thousand swords. Arch Lector Kaslain had to be restrained by the Reiksguard from launching himself at Vlad, spitting with fury that no vampire was the equal of an Imperial. Boris Todbringer declared that he would hear nothing that a vampire had to say and Alberich Haupt-Anderssen declared that right was for Electors and generals and that Vlad was neither.

Out of the corner of her eye Katarin saw Franz give a gesture and Kurt Helborg stepped up. "SILENCE!"

The room fell into quiet and Franz nodded his thanks to the Reiksmarshall. "At this time we must not forget the customs that makes the Empire what it is. Vlad von Carstein may speak, so says your Emperor."

Vlad bowed his head in thanks to the Emperor. "I can do nothing to assuage many of your fears," he declared, stepping forward. "I have murdered, schemed and slaughtered; I have sought the Imperial title and waged war to get it, I have raised the dead to serve me and I have bent others to my will. I would judge you all the more harshly for forgiving me for one instance of assistance. However, my armies do stand ready to assist your against the enemy beyond the wall of the Supreme Patriarch. I will be the first into battle and the last to quit the field. My forces will be the shield between the enemy and your cities, your homes and your families... If you allow me to fight as an ally. If not, if you declare that I must die then I will fight, as will my followers, we will not walk meekly to our deaths at your hands any more than we would against the Great Enemy. I wonder if you could sustain the losses that would come from such a battle, and if, in killing me, you have the strength to hold back the other enemy. Like it or not, we must stand together, or all is lost."

A silence filled the room to be broken Aldebrand Ludenhoff. "My forces are now dedicated to the defeat of the Great Enemy. I will not spend them against von Carstein if it can be avoided."

"Nor will I," added Valmir vono Raukov. "My lands are on the border, battling von Carstein will rip them apart before Chaos even arrives to unleash their might."

"Kislev did not fall to the vampires, it fell to Chaos, the last of my people would gladly die to avenge our land, and it did not fall to the vampires," Katarin added, a war behind the wall would undo everything.

"Aye," declared Thorgrim Grudgebearer. "The Uzkular allowed Ungrim Ironfist to depart the battlefield, Dawi lives were saved, my axe will not be raised on this day."

"My brother as well," said Teclis. "And he has come here to give us his assistance, against Chaos it should not be turned away."

With those voices added, the motion was passed, Arch Lector Kaslain and Alberich Hauppt-Anderssen could not raise enough to stand against the tide.

"The matter is decided," Franz declared. "Vlad von Carstein, our armies will work together against the foe."

Vlad nodded and stepped back into line.

"Now, there is another matter that must be settled. Luthor Huss, bring forward the boy."

Luthor nodded and left the hall. A moment later he returned with Valten in tow.

The boy was handsome enough to take Katarin's breath away, even in his peasant's tattered clothes. Franz had offered him some finery, but Huss had rejected them, the five hundred had to see Valten as he was. His ripped shirt allowed all in the room to see the twin tailed birthmark across his chest. There were murmurs amongst the generals and officials who had yet to clap eyes on the boy who bore Sigmar's mark on his chest. Luthor Huss didn't even wait for Franz's invitation to start speaking.

"My friends, you have all heard by now of the exploits of Valten. This young man led the defence of the Nordland coast, smashing raiders and reavers by the hundred leading only a motely band of soldiers. At the Battle of Alderfen he slew many a Chaos warrior and tainted beast, including the warlord of the enemy army and the legendary beast, Khazrak the One-Eye. As you can see, Sigmar himself has marked the boy as touched and such accomplishments with no training as a soldier and bearing the hammers of the smith's forge, emerging at such a time that we are beset as never before and we all turn to our faith in Sigmar. It is clear, this boy is Sigmar's chosen vessel, his champion and ours and the one to lead us against the great enemy."

The murmurs increased but Katarin saw a divide in the room. Boris Todbringer, the second most powerful man in the Empire seemed uninterested. Being an Ulrican, Boris was naturally sceptical of the rise of the Cult of Sigmar, and other Ulricans were the same. Others were just sceptical. _Luthor Huss is a known eccentric._ She almost jumped out of her skin at the words of the elf mage driven into her skull. _My apologies, I didn't mean to startle you. I just thought that you ought to know. His reputation isn't really helping the boy's case._

As though Teclis had prompted it, a Wissenland General spoke up. "You've proclaimed Sigmar's Herald before Huss, you weren't correct then either."

"I accept that my eyes have been wrong before, but look at Valten. Common born yet tall and strong as any well bred noble, no training but unstoppable in battle. How else can this be explained."

"There are natural warriors in any generation," replied Baron Fredrich von Armburgh, a grizzled warrior of Ostmark. "But to this degree, at this time... I've not heard of such circumstances before. Perhaps... Luthor Huss is not entirely wrong."

Then Count Theoderic Gausser of Nordland got to his feet. "I have seen the ruins of the enemy raiding fleets on my coasts. Brought about by this boy... I cannot help but think that Sigmar must have intervened."

The intervention of an Elector Count on behalf of Luthor Huss changed the tides a little. Gausser was a notable warrior, a griffon riding veteran of previous raids and supporting Valten was a surprise to many.

Katarin didn't want to be here. The matter of Vlad von Carstein would determine the war, but a theological debate about whether or not a young warrior had been sent by Sigmar didn't matter to her. But for Kislev to mean anything in the future, she had to represent her people or they would fade into nothing.

But trying to get her voice heard in this situation was impossible, the main faith of the Empire was at war with itself. Those who bore witness to Valten's skills, or the horrors of their times and looked for salvation saw what they wanted to see in the boy, the more pragmatic, those who took harder to persuade were more sceptical of Luthor Huss' latest offering to them. For every shout there were two replies just as loudly, men got to their feet and hurled abuse in the dialects of the south and the northerners replied in their own tongues. There were four islands of calm amidst the gathering storm; those around the Emperor, those around High King Thorgrim Grudgebearer, Valten himself, impressively weathering the barrage of sound and the Vampires, who looked on with something approaching amusement. The rest were barely able to be restrained by the Reiksguard knights. Franz rubbed his brow wearily before nodding to Kurt Helborg again. But this time the Reiksmarshall's words were lost amongst the cacophony shaking the vaulted halls. Then a calm but loud voice split the air. "Everyone sit down." Prince Teclis had amplified his voice so that a volume polite at state dinners was heard by everyone. Most were shocked into silence and the rest followed closely.

"Thank you Prince Teclis," Franz said. "Gentlemen this debate must be civilised, please. Does anyone have anything else to offer that could prove the veracity of Luthor Huss' claims?"

Katarin didn't expect anyone to reply, so when the Dwarf High King stood from his throne she was stunned. "I find my people may once more be able to help yours in this matter, Emperor Franz." Franz nodded, gesturing for him to continue. "Long ago, there was a debt unsettled. Shortly after forging Ghal Maraz for Sigmar, a suit of armour was commissioned for your ancestor god, the finest ever made to fit the proportions of a man. But Sigmar departed the Empire before it was finished for him, and it remains in the vaults of Karaz-a-Karak to this day. If this boy is Sigmar's true heir, sent by your god to aid you. Then perhaps that suit of armour would find a wearer at last. If it were to fit him that is."

"A fine idea," spoke Aldebrand Ludenhoff. "Surely if Sigmar's armour were to fit him, that would be sign enough?"

"I agree," said Franz. She could feel that he was just as eager to put this debate to rest as anyone was. "King Thorgrim, please send for the armour."

Thorgrim shook his head. "I cannot send for it. This treasure has been kept a close secret of the High Kings of Karaz-a-Karak, only I know where it is hidden, and so I must recover it in person. I will depart this very evening, and bring the armour as soon as I am able."

Franz nodded. "Very well, I wish you good speed on your journey, oldest friends of the Empire."

Relief flooded the air but Katarin was only nervous. _At least that matter is settled for now._

Katarin jumped again at Teclis' intrusion. _Perhaps, but we've just lost the army of the dwarfs._

She had no idea whether or not Teclis had heard her, but if he had, he didn't reply.

 _The Horde of Chaos_

The Everchosen sat motionless on his throne. His loyal Swords of Chaos stood guard over him, cutting down anyone, assassin or petitioner who dared to approach the Three Eyed King. Archaon was the eye of the Chaos Storm, it writhed and twisted around him in the quiet that followed the battle of Alderfen, when a barrage of chaos artillery the likes of which had never been seen before tried to blast down the cursed wall of Sigmar's faith, but had been repelled. He hadn't spoken a word since, two thought to challenge his right to rule after the battle, but their eyes sockets were being plucked for the last remnants of meat by carrion birds at this very moment, while the Everchosen kept his silent rule over his subjects.

Archaon's silence was not due to him brooding on defeat or failure, such thoughts had long since been purged from Archaon's mind. No, he was concentrating on slipping his mind through the wall without detection. Something approaching admiration flickered briefly in his perceptions, admiration for someone who could create a wall so simultaneously strong and subtle. It took effort for him to slip his mind through to make contact with his agent on the other side.

The faint transluscent image of the Everchosen appeared before the agent. "You made it through."

The agent bowed his head amidst the field of corpses left over from the battle. "You doubted me."

The Everchosen did not rise for the jibe. "You know what must be done."

"Of course, my eternal liege. I will find the workings of this wall and bring it down for you, have no fear."

Archaon nodded. "I cast the beastmen hordes and the failures who proceeded my armies at the wall to allow you to pass. They mean nothing to me, but let the endless field of corpses be a lesson. Fail me and I will hunt you through all the realms of ruin. Don't." With that Archaon pulled his mind away

The agent knelt to the ground. At his feet was a fallen imperial swordsman in the colours of Middenland, his dead face still a snarl of human defiance and rage. He would do, for now, a more useful face could be found later. He reached out his hand and touched the dead face. His form flickered and squirmed, writhing and roiling until a swordsman of Middenland stood in his place.

He flexed his arms, getting used to the fragile form. Shortly afterwards he heard a call. "Soldier, what are you doing!?"

He turned. A Middenlander captain was calling to him. "We're meant to be clearing the dead for burial, come now, quick march."

"Coming Captain," the Changeling called. He licked his lips as he followed the captain who had no idea that he was the next rung on his ladder.


	20. 2-7

Gelt rested in his quarters. Alone he had relieved himself of his mask, the golden shield resting on the desk before him in his otherwise sparse quarters. He allowed himself few luxuries here, his books and alchemical laboratories were back in Altdorf, he had no need of them here. No, here he had only a bed to fall asleep on for a few fretful hours every day, a stand to hang his robes and a desk and chair to sit down on. By practice he didn't have even a mirror, that he could avoid looking at his ruined visage. But he couldn't completely avoid the disastrous effects of his overuse of power. He held up his hand where the pale skin was flecked with gold, the metal worked into his skin, becoming part of him. It had begun with the explosion that had forced him to wear the mask, but in creating the bastion it had gotten worse, like he was becoming one with the wind of Chamon.

He heard the handle of the door turn and called his mask to him which flew onto his face as he turned to face the door. "What!" He demanded.

Katarin stood framed by a pale light in the doorway. "Supreme Patriarch we need-" she cut off and stared at his arm in shock and fascination. Gelt looked down and quickly pulled his glove on, letting his sleeve fall down to cover his metallurgic skin.

"Need what?" He asked more politely.

She shook herself. "You are needed at Hermannhoff at once, by order of the Emperor."

He tilted his head. He would have raised an eyebrow but behind his mask that would mean nothing. "The Emperor sends an Empress to collect me? It must be serious, what's happened?"

She shook her head. "There's been trouble at one of the wizard circles, I can't say anymore."

He sighed. "Very well, lead the way."

Hermannhoff wasn't so far away, so he allowed Quicksilver to rest his wings and trot alongside the Tzarina's great bear, the remaining bear cavalry and winged hussars of Kislev flanking them at a respectable distance. "What's wrong with your arm?" She asked.

"There is nothing wrong with my arm, any more than there is with yours."

She glared at him. " _My_ arm is not turning to gold... or ice." He glanced at her arm, pale and slender, almost delicate, but not turning to ice.

"My arm is well and able as ever, don't fear." He wasn't surprised that the Tzarina had identified the cause of the transformation, she was wise, beautiful and more than a little gifted in the magical arts. But he was not lying, there was nothing wrong with his arm, nothing he couldn't handle. Since the Bastion, Chamon was his, metal was his plaything, he could contain the transmutation.

Soldiers surrounded Hermannhoff, men of the army of Reikland assigned to the area. Men in tents talked in hushed whispers, paying them no heed as they passed. "What's happened here?" He asked Katarin.

"The hero Valten passed by only a few days ago," Katarin explained.

Ah, so Huss' rhetoric was spreading to the ranks. So be it, let the men have their hero, he knew that it would be his wall that kept the army of chaos contained forever. He didn't ask where they were going or why, only followed Katarin as she led him to the central watch tower of Hermannhoff. That was where he has stationed this Wizard's circle, he realised, had something happened?

Murder had happened. He stepped out onto the top of the tower to the scent of death and the sight of horror. He almost slipped on the first patch of blood. A white wizard lay closest, his stomach ripped open, his eyes wide with terror. Not far from him a grey wizard was propped against the wall, his staff snapped in two and driven into his stomach like a pair of lances. The others were strewn across the rooftop. Eight bodies, an entire circle of wizards, one from each of the colleges, dead. Standing amongst the dead was the Emperor, at his side his trusted swords Schwartzhelm and Helborg. With them was Arch-Lector Kaslain and With Hunter Emil Grussner, who'd earned great renown accompanying the two invasions of Sylvania under Volkmar and Hans Leitdorf. The Witch Hunter was crouched over the body of a strongly built amber wizard, whose throat had been ripped out.

"Finally," Helborg growled. "We've been waiting Gelt."

Gelt ignored, him, his eyes drawn to the gold wizard, one of his own protégés, a deep gouge cut into his torso. "How did this happen?"

"No one knows," Franz replied in the most reasoned voice atop the tower. The servant brought up breakfast for the wizards and found them slain."

"We have acted quickly," Schwartzhelm said. "We were nearby, and when we saw what happened, word was sent up and down the wall, even now every wizard circle is being placed under heavy guard, night and day, this will not happen again."

"It should never have happened at all," Gelt said. He approached the corpse of a Bright Wizard, holding up her hand and examining the fingers, a slight red hue to the tips of her fingers. A burn mark. "Here," he said, "this one fought back, these are burns from casting spells, she fought back, and yet there are no bodies here. This was far more than a simple murder.

"Very good mortal," came a drawling voice from the entrance. Blades were in hand as they all span to face Isabella von Carstein.

Helborg stepped forward, sword held across his body. "Why have you come, vampire?" He demanded.

She giggled. "I am here to investigate what happened to these wizards," she replied, entirely unfazed by the blade of the Reiksmarshall. She gave a whistling call and a giant bat fluttered down. As soon as it was resting on Isabella's shoulder it used it's wing to cover its eyes. The vampires may no longer be so affected by the sun, but the same could not be true of their pets, who had evolved over millennia to avoid it. "My husband's pet here saw the bodies and I came to see what could be seen. And what I see here is murderers work, meant to inspire fear and terror and unease, a murder that should not have been possible but has nevertheless been accomplished. Some might call it inspired work."

Gelt had to refrain from crushing the armour of the Lady of Drakenhof upon her. "Most call it fell and foul," he replied, getting to his feet and facing her.

"There is something here," Emil said, drawing the attention of everyone. He was holding up his gloved finger, something ichorous dripping from it in slow, thick droplets. "Something unnatural."

"How unnatural?" Kaslain asked, touching the hammer pendant around his neck.

Emil carefully slid the glove off and set it alight with his torch. "I've seen it only twice before, it comes from the Chaos Wastes, left behind by the daemons of the enemy."

"Daemons," cursed Kaslain.

Emil nodded. "I know no more than that, but it was no man that murdered these priests."

"How do we find it?" Franz asked. "We cannot have any more circles fall prey to this."

Emil pushed himself to his feet. "Tracking such beasts is difficult but not impossible, with your leave sire I will begin at once."

Franz nodded.

"Daemons are made of the stuff of magic," Gelt said as Emil swept from the top of the tower. "I will begin my own search."

"As will I," said Katarin. "My magic comes from the earth and will no doubt be helpful in finding him."

"And I will return to my husband," Isabella said, looking at Gelt with an expression bordering on approval. "Our pets will get to work on the hunt as well." With a twitch of her shoulder the bat fluttered into the air again."

The hunt was on.

* * *

Give him vampires and their minions to hunt any day, Emil thought. The beasts left trails far easier to follow, the scent of death, the hoofprints of dead horses and bodies drained of blood. Then of course they used to be fragile as Nippon glass against the sun so they needed somewhere safe to hunker down for daytime. Add all of these and more together and you could begin to narrow down the lair of the beast and slaughter them like the animals they were. Emil had six vampires to his name, but never had he actually caught a daemon. Once he'd gotten close, but the creature had escaped, later to be slain in battle. As he found another drop of daemonic ichor he marked it on his map, but wondered if he'd run out of charcoal before finding the beast.

Daemons were sustained by their connection to the realm of chaos and the wastes they spawned. They needed no food, no hunting grounds to keep to, they did not sleep, so needed no place of safety and a daemon skilled in hunting and hiding left no prints or tracks. The best tools a Witch Hunter had to track a daemon were luck, and being able to predict where they'd go next. This daemon was an assassin, targeting those who could bring down the wall. Given that almost the entirety of imperial might was at the wall, the list of targets was too great. He hated relying on luck, but that was all he had.

His luck so far had taken him to an Ostland force encamped at Jonningsberg. Jonningsberg had been a run down fortress with crumbling walls before the invasion, since driving out a warband of marauders the Ostlanders had been to work, restoring the fortress and it now stood as a strong fist of stone punching from the earth, and the place to where Emil had come on his hunt.

With a drop of ichor in sight of the fort, perhaps the foe's ambitions had something to do with it. Unlikely, there was no wizard circle here, only a simple military outpost.

A small collection of huts outside seemed to stand abandoned as he walked past. Two spearmen stood guard, vigilant and watchful. "Halt!" One of them called.

He raised his hand. "It is only I, Witch Hunter Emil Grussner." Four crossbowmen appeared on the ramparts, weapons lowered at him as half a dozen spearmen approached to check him over to make sure he was who he said he was. After that was cleared the castle was opened and he was admitted in. The men of Ostland were standing watch on the walls, drilling in the courtyard or managing supplies. Despite the evacuation, he noted that several peasants were still here, helping manage the supplies and keep the castle in shape. It was to be expected, an order to abandon the place where you had made your home and life... didn't go as easily for everyone, as it had for him.

"Thank Sigmar, a Witch Hunter!" Emil turned as a red faced sergeant raced over, panting heavily.

"Why so pleased?" Few ever were when one of his order approached.

The sergeant stood up straight. "You... didn't respond to our summons?"

Emil shook his head. "No, I'm hunting. Why? What's happened here?" Could it be something to do with the ichor he had found?

"Three days ago our captain went missing, slipped out of his bed and left without a trace."

A missing captain? Not as important as a murdered wizard, but still, perhaps it was something. "He didn't tell anyone where he was going?" If this was just some wayward sub commander it could distract valuable time from his hunt.

The sergeant shook his head. "No, the guards on the gate report he commanded them to part and let him through, other than that, nothing."

"How did he seem?"

"Distant, vague, so they say, but they still let him through."

He nodded. It could be something. He would see where it led.

He set out with five state troops. Tracking a human was a welcome reprieve from hunting a demon and even three days gone, the path the captain took was not difficult to find. It wound north and came to an old ruin, no larger than a house, overgrowth almost covering the only thing of note, a set of steps heading down into the darkness.

"What is this place?"

"The Old Brewery," one of the men said. "A dwarf family owned it a century back, but it's been empty for time, the men used to use it for..." the trooper had turned bright red. "The old captain was strict, stern, the men used to use this place for... relief."

Emil nodded. There was something here, the air was foul, and the captain's trail led down into what he assumed was the cellar.

"What do you think?" Another soldier whispered.

Emil sniffed the air. "I think your captain chose the wrong night to go looking for whores. Remain here." He drew a torch out and lit it, holding it high above him. He suspected he'd find nothing more than a dead body of a man who had slipped going down the stairs in the darkness, nothing more. But still, leaving so suddenly, so silently, and coming to a place for whores with no whores. Something wasn't right. He proceeded down the steps.

The light of his torch flickered on the walls of the old cellar. "Captain Stefan!" He called out, hoping for a response.

"Yes," a voice called from deeper within.

Emil followed it, past pillars holding up the stone roof with bracketed torches hanging from the walls. He lit each one as he passed, the more light the better as far as he was concerned.

He found the captain sat, cross legged deep inside the crypt. He was fiddling with a stone, like a child with a toy.

"Captain Stafan?" He approached cautiously, holding his torch up high.

"Yes," he replied again. Then suddenly he giggled. "Yes yes yes, that's me, I'm here- shush," he raised a finger to his lip. "Be careful-yes be careful and quiet, the enemy has ears as well as eyes." He clutched his palms over his ears."

"Madness," Emil muttered, sighing. Even the hardest warrior could break after a hundred battles, this captain would not be the only one to be brought low by the horrors on his own mind. As he was about to turn away to get the men, he caught a flash of something, an eye. The captain was watching him. The eyes flickered away after half a moment, but it was enough to give him pause.

He reached into a pocket for a coin, silvered and blessed by a warrior priest. "Captain, this is yours." He tossed the coin, watching it spin through the air. The captain didn't watch, but when the coin bounced off his arm he leapt to his feet with a cry, steam rising from where the holy coin had touched his damned flesh.

Emil drew his pistol and fired, but the daemon already leapt aside, the form of the captain melting into that of a great champion of Chaos, garbed in spiked plate and wielding an almighty axe.

He backed off, reloading another silvered bullet, a metal shot would be better against the armour of the champion, but this was a daemon, far better to be countered with faith. But he didn't have time to get off a shot before the creature was upon him, he ducked under a heavy axe swing and slashed with his own blade. It as an awkward strike straight out of the scabbard, but his next two were true, striking at the enlarged limbs of his foe. The champion melted away to reveal a lithe assassin, clad in dark leather and wearing a face mask, her leather exposing a pale neckline and accentuating curves to perfect for truth. The next flurry of strikes were rapid and fierce, and he was barely able to catch them all with his own blade, one slipping through his defences to cut across his cheek. He stepped forward, locking his blade with the assassin, she paused to hold his strike and he lashed out with his front foot, catching her in the chest and sending her stumbling back. She fell, rolling back on to all fours.

"Take whatever form you like daemon, I will be able to counter you."

"Will you?" The daemon said, rising into Emil's mirror form, bleeding cut on his cheek and all. "So will I," he said in Emil's voice.

Emil charged. "Remove my face monster, it's mine and you can't have it!" How dare this daemonspawn take his face! He was devoted to Sigmar, to see his face in service to the dark powers... Never! They danced across the stone floor, back and forth, every move Emil made the daemon knew how to counter.

Then the daemon drew him in then snatched out with his hand, wrapping it tightly around Emil's throat and holding fast. But then he roared out in pain and released him, his hand smoking. By gripping Emil's neck he'd seized his holy medallion. Emil drew his pistol and fired wildly, the holy shot catching his doppelganger on the leg, tearing through the daemonflesh leaving a burning hole behind, seeping blood. The creature span, as it did so it grew larger and stronger until the foot that connected with Emil's chest was the size of his torso and sent him flying back across the crypt. He grunted as he slammed against the back wall and a cackling laughter followed. "This was fun Witch Hunter, but I must be off now, have fun."

Emil roared and clambered to his feet, but the daemon was already fleeing up the steps. He took them two at a time, sword ready and burst out into the sunlight, where his escort looked at him bewildered.

"What- but?" One of them said.

"But you just came out?" said another.

"Told us to wait here while you went off."

"Where did he go?!" Emil demanded.

"Who?"

"The thing pretending to be me, which way?!"

Wordlessly one of the soldiers pointed. "Get back to your fort," he said, pulling himself into his saddle. "And send word that you need a new captain." Without waiting for a reply he put his spurs to his horse and set off in the direction the soldier had pointed. He couldn't let this thing get away."


	21. 2-8

"Is it really mine?" the boy Valten breathed, reaching out and brushing his fingers along the shining silver plate. Wrought all from gromril, emblazoned with golden pauldrons, the right in the form of a wolf's head, the left like the head of a great boar, and a great hammer was carved into the chest with intricate detail.

"If it fits, it is yours," said the dour dwarfen runesmith. He'd come from the great dwarfen city with a hundred veteran longbeards at his back ,the sworn guard of the suit of armour. "It was made long ago, when no dwarf alive today was even a beardling. But before it could be delivered to it's bearer, he vanished. We have kept it ever since. But they say you are Sigmar's herald, his avatar on this world. If that is true, then the armour is yours."

Isabella found it revolting and beautiful all at once. She could appreciate the artistry of the under-mountain folk, even if the sight of the Sigmarite sigils made her want to rip it to cold shreds. It wasn't fair! Vlad had freed them from the blight of the sun, but still Sigmar's blessings could hurt them.

"Calm my love." She felt the reassurance of Vlad's hand on her shoulder, the fingers a gentle caress against her form. "We have nothing to fear from this one."

"Don't we?" She asked. "What if he turns on us? What if, after defeating the armies of the dark gods, Sigmar's champion chooses to turn his wrath on us, with all the Empire behind him?"

"Then I will kill him," Vlad said. He took her by the waist and pulled her in to him, resting his forehead on hers. She cooed at the feel of him. "I've lost you and Sylvania once already, my love. I won't again, I won't."

Isabella reached up and kissed Vlad. She'd never liked kisses in life, not even from her mother as a child, the warm wetness invading her mouth like a live eel, wriggling and writhing around her tongue. But Vlad was different, he wasn't warmth, he was a presence, an undeniable power, and feeling part of that power inside her... mortals would never understand.

As she revelled in the feel of his tongue in her mouth, the pressure of his hand holding hers, she heard exclamations of piety and the sound of metal hitting the ground.

She looked to the boy. The armour was sculpted around his form like a silk glove. Somehow it looked more perfect around the boy's body. It was like it had been made for him. The imperial soldiers nearby had fallen to their knees in supplication. Mortals, she'd forgotten how much they could amuse her.

"Curious," Vlad whispered, holding her close. "It seems we are witness to change my love."

She pouted. "But I was in the middle of my hunt." It had been an amusing hunt so far, the Witch Hunter had been blundering to and fro but had come closest to killing the creature of chaos that was attempting to destroy the Bastion. She'd dogged it all the way here, but had been unable to find anything. It was irking her beyond measure. But she'd find the beast first, she promised herself, she would _not_ be bested by a mere mortal!

* * *

"I hear that Franz means to bestow Ghal Maraz upon Valten," Ludicio said behind him. "And only half a day from here. We should go and see it!"

Gelt held back a growl. His head was already throbbing nearly constantly, the Staff of Volans was becoming more of a walking stick than a conduit of great power. He'd voiced his displeasure enough about Valten being given such a symbol of state, but now he was nearly beyond the point of caring, he was definitely beyond the point of trying to persuade Franz of this folly.

"Is there anything worth my listening to coming out of your mouth," Gelt growled at the light wizard. "Or can I focus on the bastion."

"Master," his apprentice said, trying to soothe him. "You need to rest, let another shoulder your burden, if only for a few days."

"Who, you! You're having trouble walking. The Tzarina's magic is linked to the earth, the wizard circles are already working as hard as they can, how can I do less?!"

"What about the Elf?" His apprentice said. He'd grown so used to Gelt's fiery outbursts that they didn't faze him anymore. "Loremaster Teclis."

Gelt scoffed. "No, he would take it upon himself to try and improve it. I can't risk it."

"Master-"

"Everyone out, I need silence." He'd just felt something. Beneath the pain, a slight undertone hovering beneath the surface of throbbing discomfort there was a presence. He couldn't quite work out if it was new or had always been there, but he felt it none the less, a shadow across the winds of magic, the subtle shift in the winds of magic, but particularly the wind of shadow - Ulgu. Deception, disguise, something was hiding nearby.

But Gelt's power had grown vast since he had stepped in line with the wind of Chamon itself, and now he hooked onto it. He would follow it, and find this deception.

Taking up his staff, he set off alone to confront this shadow.

The servants of shadow were crude, for they had led him into... a catacomb.

He stepped through the dimming light of flickering torches, between pillars of stone holding up the floor above him, waiting for the perfect time to strike. It came soon enough. He found himself in a circle, no more than ten feet across, but with enough room for him to exercise his full powers. "I know you are here," he declared to the darkness. "Come forth now, and face me."

A high pitched chuckle responded. "How predictable, I knew you would come." A great armoured figure emerged from behind one of the pillars, a limp noticeable in its leg, it's armour a twisted mass of chaos cursed iron and steel. "My friends and I have been waiting, Supreme Patriarch." Three more warriors of chaos emerged as well, surrounding him at the four points of the compass. "Now we can fulfil our charge, by killing you, the bastion will fall, and the Everchosen will emerge."

"Good luck," Gelt replied. They came at him together, charging forwards. "He raised the staff of Volans and channelled his power. Three of them froze before him, their armour suddenly weighing on their shoulders like great mountains. The last one charged on, heedless, swinging a great axe in a wide arc for his chest. He ducked underneath it, swinging his staff, making it ring off the warrior's great helm. He summoned his powers, condensing them around the staff in a golden mist. When the warrior spun to face him, he raised the staff, pointing it at the warrior's face, unleashing a stream of molten silver that poured through its visor and any crack it could find between the overlapping plates of iron and steel. The warrior dropped it's axe and screamed in sheer agony. Gelt increased his power, pouring the molten silver into two of the other warriors as well until they all fell silent.

He stood tall and dusted his robes off as he let the three corpses fall to the ground. He approached their leader, still holding him fast with his power. "Now then, without interruptions, we will talk, beast."

"I never was much of a one for talk."

Gelt ignored him. "I can see that you are no sorcerer, so, who cast the guise protecting you and your fellows. I know they are strong, they made it just enough so that I would come down here in search of them, only to find you, though they underestimated my power in turn. That level of sorcerous subtlety leads me to conclude that they are behind the murders all along the wall, and now, you will tell me how to find them."

"I know nothing."

"You lie, With wizards such as myself and Loremaster Teclis here, and the powers of the Tzarina on top of that, you could not risk magical communication, it would draw too much attention from us, you met in person to discuss this plan, which means, you know who is behind the attacks at the wall, and you will tell me."

The warrior growled at him.

"So be it." He raised his hand and gave a twist of his fingers. The warrior started to pant in pain as his armoured boots began to heat up. "Tell me what I want to know."

It took hours of work, heating the warrior's metal covering until it was red hot, twisting it's metal fingers around until the bones had snapped in a dozen places and more methods that the Witch Hunters would be proud of until Gelt heard the word he'd been waiting for. "Enough." It came as a whisper, but that was all he needed.

He ceased his assault at once. "Who is it?" He demanded.

"The... boy... the one you call... Valten. He is a servant of the true gods," the warrior let out a cackle of laughter. "Oh you have blundered. While he sent you here, he has worked his way closer and closer, and soon will stand at the Emperor's side. Tell me, how long will the Empire stand without Karl Franz to helm it, how long will the faith hold true when the Herald of Sigmar shows his true allegiance. You have kept the Everchosen's armies out, but he will still destroy you, there are too many weapons for you to counter them al-" With a great crack of crunching metal, Gelt crushed the warrior's helmet around his skull.

Without a look back he turned and raced out to find Quicksilver. Valten's plot had to be foiled, now!

After a few minutes of silence, there was movement in the room. The three warriors Gelt had first killed melted away into puddles of ichor, and then evaporated into nothingness. The twisted, red hot morass of the leader of the warriors twisted, bubbled and contorted until the Changeling stood in its place. "Oh Supreme Patriarch," it giggled softly. "I believe it is you who underestimated my power."

* * *

The crowd gathered around the Emperor was as great as any Franz had ever seen. Much of the hard strength of the army gathered at the northern border had come to Alderfen, the sight of the Empire's great triumph over the beastmen, and the place where Valten had emerged as their champion. Thousands of soldiers of the armies of the Elector Counts were assembled on the plain, their livery proud and clean in regimented squares of halberdiers, swordsmen and spearmen, detachments of handgunners and crossbowmen to the side, their weapons shouldered. Eight Elector Counts stood to the side of Emperor Franz, their Runefang's at their sides. The Arch Lectors were there as well, attended by Warrior Priests and Witch Hunters. The grand masters of a dozen knightly orders held their blades point down in procession down from the raised dais. The Patriarchs and Matriarchs of the colleges of magic were there as well, seven of the eight, Gelt himself was absent, a fact which irked Franz, this was a time he needed all of the Empire to stand together. But Gelt had not been himself lately, and he could forgive the supreme patriarch for taking some time to rest and recouperate. The Von Carstein duo were also present, surrounded by a core of vampiric companions, off to the side, respectfully close, yet out of the way enough for people to pretend they weren't there if they so wished. Tzarina Katarin stood in a beautiful sapphire gown, ice crystals woven into her hair. Fifty seven Imperial Generals were in attendance, as were a hundred and eighty two captains of the Empire, all stood, like the grand masters, extending in procession down a single column between the armies. Such a gathering was the pinnacle of Imperial power, a force which Franz could have led from one side of the world to another and never known defeat, but they were not here for him, they were here for the Herald.

Silence fell as Valten approached. He came down the path cleared by the officers of the army. He looked magnificent, his hair a burnished gold around his youthful, clean shaven face, yet garbed in the dwarf-forged armour of Gromril he stood as taller than any of them, the sun glinting off the metal and making it sparkle like diamonds. Even Franz couldn't keep down the feeling of awe as he approached.

Valten did not bow, as others would before him, he simply took his place at Franz's side.

"Men of the Empire," he called, his voice carried out over the army. "We stand at arms in times of darkness and despair such that the Empire has not known since the time of Magnus, perhaps since Sigmar himself walked among men. The realm of Kislev, so long the northern shield of the realms of men, fallen into ruin, hordes of beastmen risen from the depths of darkness to despoil our lands. Some of you have seen a hundred battles in your lives, some have seen a hundred since this darkness began spreading, some of you have not fought in one yet, but you all stand together, united against our foe, and for that reason if nothing else, victory is not yet beyond our reach.

"But there is yet another reason to rejoice. For in this time of woe, mighty Sigmar has not forgotten us. He has blessed us with his chosen champion, the man you see before you is his hero, his warrior, his champion, his very herald, sent to us to deliver us from the darkness. And as the herald of our god, it is only fitting that he wields our god's weapon as his own once more." He signalled and on a proud scarlet cushion, Ghal Maraz was brought forward, held between the Emperor and the Herald, who looked at the weapon with trepidation hinting behind his eyes. Franz only hoped that no other could see it. "As I have served Sigmar at the head of his armies, so shall I remain, with his blessing and guidance, I will command the armies of the Empire in the war against the Everchosen. His herald will stride out amongst the armies and villages, of our land, wielding his mighty hammer, he will smite the foe wherever he shall find them. It is no coincidence, that this herald has come to us so shortly after the death of the Grand THeogonist, and the Cult of Sigmar is in agreement, there is no one finer to take Volkmar's place. So shall cult and Empire stand together against the great enemy." A shadow fluttered across the stage.

"Here, witnessed by you all, shall the Herald of Sigmar begin his path of war against our enemies, yet all men know, as you battle the enemy, Sigmar battles beside you."

"Stop this now!"

The call split the air like a thunderbolt as a mighty Pegasus landed partway down the cleared passage, the honour guard leaping out of the way as Gelt dismounted ungracefully. "This farce ends here!"

What is he doing? Franz thought. Had the strain finally broken Gelt? He nodded at Kurt, who walked as fast as he could while maintaining dignity down towards the Supreme Patriarch. "I know the truth daemon," Gelt declared, pointing his staff at Valten. "I know that you have murdered my wizards and now seek to murder the Emperor. I will stop you here!"

"Blasphemy!" Arch Lector Kaslain roared in anger.

Kurt got right next to Gelt, and took his arm gently. Whispers were spreading out across the army as soldiers further away tried to work out what was going on. Franz looked at Valten, who stared at Gelt, bewildered. "Franz, you cannot give him Ghal Maraz!"

Kurt was trying to talk sense into the Patriarch, but Gelt brushed him off, shoving past him. "Stop now, in the name of the Emperor!" Kurt demanded, reaching for his blade.

Gelt held out a hand, catching Kurt in his magical powers and holding him fast.

"Enough!" Franz roared. Gelt may be many things, but he couldn't lay his hand on the Reiksmarshall with impunity, and he knew that, he must be cracking. "Reiksguard, make Gelt secure, take him."

Three of the Reiksguard immediately advanced as Gelt's assistant hobbled on after his master, seemingly desperate to stop this before it got too far out of hand. "Master," he called, limping heavily. Two warrior priests were advancing at a gesture from Kaslain. Everyone was moving in some way, either towards the action or into huddling groups. Only the vampires stood still, Vlad von Carstein watching Gelt with something approaching concern on his face.

"Take Gelt away."

"No, stay back!" Gelt roared, his voice dripping with power and making the armoured Reiksguard knights fall flat with it.

"Master please!" The assistant took Gelt's arm and pulled close to him. "This is madness, please, you need to sleep... just sleep now."

A flash of movement made Franz spin. Valten had seized Ghal Maraz and raised it high. For just a moment, everything froze and Franz was certain it was about to smash down on his head. But then Valten hurled it. Ghal Maraz shot through the air like a golden comet before slamming into the chest of Gelt's assistant. The assistant was picked up, a long curved knife falling from his grip. As he was carried through the air he changed form, becoming a witch hunter, then a bright wizard, then a captain, then a priest, then a flagellant before finally taking the form of a hideous creature of purple spindly limbs and a head like that of a crow. Then, with a great cackle of laughter, he vanished.

The uproar drowned out almost everything, but Franz could see Gelt had fallen to his knees and even behind the mask, he could see the Supreme Patriarch was frozen in utter shock. He didn't resist as warrior priests seized him and dragged him away.

 **A/N: Apologies for the delay, I was planning out the stories going forward and have basically decided on a complete rethink. I will no longer be confining these stories per race, I want to tell the whole lot, so I'll be telling a lot more of them covering individual moments in the story which will allow me to develop the characters and stories more. Basically it will be in a similar vein to the Horus Heresy stories.**


	22. 2-9

He cradled his head in his hands in the dark cell of the nearest Sigmarite temple. He barely remembered them dragging him off, ripping his staff from his hands and casting him into the darkness. All he thought about was the knife, a ripple of purple eldritch energy and a great cackle of joy. How had he got it so wrong? How had he been so easily deceived? If it hadn't been for the Herald's intervention, the daemon would have killed him, then continued his efforts throughout the army of the Empire.

He'd drifted in and out of sleep so much he couldn't even work out how long he'd been here. A week, two, a month, a year? All were possible.

"Hey, you!" He looked at the bars of his cell to see an armoured jailor standing there, holding a small bowl in his hand. "Dinner's ready for you, you freak."

Freak, they'd called him that since his first meal. With no dignity or pride left, he cast his mask aside to where it still rested at one side of the cell, allowing all the guards to see the ruin of his face, the skin turning to gold where it wasn't ravaged by burn marks. He reached out to take the bowl. Brown slop today, as opposed to grey, green or blue as he'd had before, but one mouthful was enough to tell him it was just as tasteless. "Leave the bowl by the bars when you're done," they couldn't even stand to be so near him anymore.

He finished his bowl in silence, leaving it where asked. He brushed the bars with his fingers. If he wanted he could twist these bars aside and walk out, even as he was, he could get passed the few guards in this prison. But the bars weren't keeping him prisoner. His own regret was a cage that couldn't be broken.

More footsteps. Quick to collect this time. But this wasn't a guard, it was a Witch Hunter, the one who'd tried to track down the Changeling, and who had accompanied the Crusades against Sylvania if he recalled. The Witch Hunter wrapped leather covered fingers around the bars and stared down at him. "I never thought to see you brought so low."

Gelt looked at him. "Here to measure me for your pyre?" He asked.

Emil shook his head, sorrowful. "No, your fate has yet to be decided, but I thought you at least deserved to hear what news there is." When Gelt didn't reply, he continued anyway. "Thyrus Gormann has retaken the post of Supreme Patriarch again. Given the conflict there wasn't time for the effort or dissent of a full election, so Gorman was chosen as the last Patriarch before yourself to retake the role."

He nodded. "We're at war, you couldn't hope for a better choice." Gormann was the Patriarch of the Bright College, their fire magics would prove most useful in the coming battles.

"That's how most thought, the gold order are keeping their heads down, for now, letting the shame pass over. But there is still much ire directed at them. The daemon masqueraded as one of them, and you wrongly accused the Herald of Sigmar of being him."

"I was wrong," no one would judge him too harshly were he but an acolyte, but he was the Supreme Patriarch, he wasn't allowed to be wrong.

"You were, and many are soon to pay for your mistake."

"My wizards?" He asked, was the Gold Order about to be purged? The cult had done worse for betrayal in it's years.

Emil shook his head. "No, Luthor Huss. He's risen in prestige as the man who brought the Herald of Sigmar to us again. Under his direction, the Cult of Sigmar is withdrawing it's support from the bastion."

Gelt hung his head. He knew in his heart of hearts that this would happen. "And without their support, the Auric Bastion will fall."

Emil nodded. "The Emperor has ordered a full retreat, the armies are already moving, they'll be gone by the end of the week."

"The Herald?"

"Travels with the Emperor, and the prayers of the Empire."

"Loremaster Teclis?"

"With the Emperor as well, even he couldn't sustain the barrier without the faith. He and the Tzarina tried to remould it, but it wouldn't work, you created something only you could control, and soon it will fall."

Gelt stared at the cold stone walls of his cell. "I tried to save us," he whispered.

Emil sighed. "I know."

"Time's up!" called a guard. "Leave the heretic alone now."

Emil nodded and stepped back.

"When will I know what happens to me?" He asked.

Emil glanced his way. "As soon as your fate is decided I expect. You've earned that much."

He left Balthazar to his thoughts of despair.

* * *

"There must be another way!" Franz insisted to the assembled upper echelons of the Cult of Sigmar. Valten sat in the back, Ghal Maraz across his knees, looking at it in wonder. Franz wished he would speak, while he was silent, Luthor Huss' zealotry had taken over the Cult. "Discount Gelt if you must, but his barrier-"

"The faith cannot support any of the former Supreme Patriarch's works," Huss insisted, arms folded across his barrel like chest in defiance. "Our prayers will not support the work of one so easily fooled by daemonkind. The daemon masqueraded as his own apprentice and he noticed nothing. We cannot allow our faith to risk such easy infiltration by association with his works, who knows what else remains of the daemon's work. Our position has not changed and never will."

Franz sighed in resignation. In truth he had only hope that they would reverse their decision, allow him to recall the armies to the bastion and continue to hold the enemy at bay until they inevitably fell apart.

It was not to be. Instead he turned and made his way to his command tent. The Army of Reikland would be one of the last to retreat, already the other armies were on the way south and west, to more defensible lands.

The great councils of the campaign had marshalled over five hundred generals, lords, sorcerers and other elites, around the tent now were only six: Kurt Helborg, Ludwig Schwartzhelm, Thyrus Gormann – the new Supreme Patriarch, Tzarina Katarin and, slightly aside from the others, Vlad and Isabella von Carstein.

"My Emperor," Kurt started, stepping forward. "Do we continue with the retreat?"

Franz nodded. "We do, Sigmar save us, but the war will be decided elsewhere it seems."

"There are cracks appearing all along the bastion, without the power of the faith or Gelt it will fall, possibly within days, will we get far enough away, I wouldn't like to be caught out in the open plains of the north of the Empire, in retreat, with a much greater enemy force coming up behind me." Schwartzhelm didn't hold back on their situation, and Franz himself had given much thought to it. He didn't like to rely on prayer and chance, but he needed every blessing of every god to ensure that it didn't happen.

"I can stop them." They all turned to look at Vlad von Carstein. Isabella was wrapped around him like a cloak, her body pressed against his. "The living need to retreat, the dead can give you the time you need to do so."

"You would sacrifice your kind for ours?" Thyruss Gormann asked. "I don't believe it."

"My kind?" Vlad asked, sneering at the patriarch. "No, Isabella will take many of my cousins of the blood in their retreat. I will hold the line with my necromancers... and every corpse that can be raised."

"Sacrilidge!" Gormann began, but Franz held up a hand to silence him. "How much time can you buy us?"

Vlad nodded in thanks to Franz agreeing to listen. "As long as my necromancers can keep raising the dead, we will hold them, I will never be able to achieve victory alone, but even the arms of cursed chaos warriors must grow tired when they have to cut through seas of corpses."

"You would use the bodies of the dead-" Thyrus began.

"To allow the living a chance to not join them," Vlad finished, taking a single step forward. That one step had the weight of ages behind it. "A chance to fight again at their own will. I do not have the power to raise the dead of twelve provinces, if the living fall, the realms of death will follow, and nothing will be able to stop the advance of Chaos."

Franz nodded discreetly at Kurt. It was clear that Thyrus would continue to object to Vlad, but a suggestion from the Reiksmarshall...

"We do need someone to screen our retreat, every day will save lives and preserve our strength. If von Carstein volunteers, I say that we indulge him."

Thryus still looked like he hated the suggestion, but outnumbered, the newly reinstated Supreme Patriarch decided not to press the issue. "So be it, I'll shed no tears when he dies."

"Nor will I," Isabella said leaning up and pressing cold lips to her husband's cheek, "because he will come back to me when he does." Vlad patted her arm gently.

"So it's decided," Katarin said, stepping forward, her icy presence cooling the rage of Thyrus Gormann. "I will inform the last of my soldiers to be ready to move by the end of the day." She swept out of the tent, ending the debate quickly.

"And I will prepare to hold the line here, Isabella, come." The two vampires followed the Tzarina, leaving only men of the Empire behind.

"We should go," Franz said. There was nothing else to be done. Well, only one thing.

Outside, as she was preparing to mount Urskin, Katarin turned at the sound of footsteps, Vlad and Isabella were approaching. "What do you want?" She asked, her hand dropping to the pommel of her blade.

"Only your help," Vlad said. "This war, it will not end quickly."

"I'm aware," Katarin replied, unsure where the vampires were going with this.

"We will need all the power we can get to win it," he continued.

"If you doubt my commitment to this war," she replied, indignation bristling within her. "Don't. I will avenge Kislev and all it's people."

"It's not your commitment that concerns me," Vlad says. "Only the foresight of the petty cults of the Empire." She raised an eyebrow. "Someone with the power to raise such a wall should not be left to be executed for an insult to a prophet boy."

Katarin stalled. "Balthazar."

Vlad nodded. "The old Supreme Patriarch, we will need a man of such power in the battles to come."

She knew that power well enough. "And why are you telling me instead of the Emperor?"

Vlad and Isabella shared a brief glance. "Because the Emperor won't help us break him out."

* * *

Gelt looked up at the sound of metal falling to stone. What was that? He pressed his face to the bars, but couldn't see beyond them. The padding of footsteps came rushing towards him and he fell backwards. Disgruntled assassins, here to kill him for what he'd done, without even a trial... perhaps he deserved no less.

But it wasn't an executioner. "Tzarina!" He gasped at the woman who turned at his cell.

She recoiled at the sight of his ruined face. "Balthazar," she breathed. "What... by the snows?" She cut off, looking back from where she'd come.

"You have him?" Vlad von Carstein stepped into view. His sword was still sheathed, in fact, there was no sign that there had been any violence at all. Vlad only looked at Gelt with passing curiosity. "We have to go, now."

The Tzarina drew her blade and with two deft strikes, had cut through the bars, sending them chiming to the floor. She held out a pale hand to him. "Come Balthazar. Quickly."

Gelt didn't move. "Why?" He whispered.

"This world isn't done with you yet," Vlad said, beckoning him. "Come."

"You don't deserve this," Katarin said. "You made mistakes, grave errors of judgement, but that is an accusation that can be laid at anyone's feet. You tried, chaos gods be damned, but you tried to keep them out, and for that, you deserve to have the chance to help fight them."

"Fight them?"

"We need to hurry," Vlad said, clearly not happy with the lack of alacrity shown by the Supreme Patriarch. "Damn it man," he said as Gelt refused to be pulled away.

He's broken, Katarin realised. She'd seen that look on the eyes of soldiers who had lost everything, who had been broken by their first fight or their hundredth. Not that she could truly blame him. She entered the cell and took his arm gently. "Come, Balthazar, let's get you outside for now."

It took a while to coax Gelt to move, down the corridor of empty cells, past where Isabella was charming the guards to stay asleep and towards the open air outside.

There were four mounts waiting for them outside: The two undead horses of the Vampires, Urskin, and Quicksilver, Gelt's Pegasus had landed just as they were to break him out of the prison, he knew his master would be needed. "Quicksilver," Balthazar's grip became just a little tighter, a little more sure on her arm.

"He'll take you away from here," Katarin said, ignoring the pointed glares of Vlad and Isabella. They wanted to keep him in the fight, but Gelt had no fight left in him, he needed to recover, to remember himself, and for that, he needed freedom. "To a place where you can recover yourself."

Gelt nodded. Before taking the reins of Quicksilver, he ran his hands over the soft fur of the animal. "My friend," he whispered to it softly before awkwardly pulling himself up onto the saddle.

"So you freed him then?" She spun, sword in hand at the voice, but faltered at the sight of Karl Franz approaching, alone.

"Peace, Katarin," he said, holding out his hands. "If I meant him harm I would have brought the Witch Hunters, I only wish to speak to him, before he leaves."

"My Emperor..." Balthazar sounded sorrowful, regretful, fearful and subservient all at once.

Franz stepped up. There was no aggression in his posture. "I'm sorry I couldn't get you released to your old position, not many remember the good you have done."

"It was my pride, my hubris, that disillusioned them, if I had just accepted the offers of help, instead of needing to do it all alone... much of the horror that is to come could be avoided."

Franz brushed Quicksilver's mane. "Do you know where you'll go?" He asked after a moment of silence.

Gelt looked at Quicksilver. "Wherever he takes me."

Franz nodded. "How long do I have, Gelt?" Franz asked. "How long before that wall collapses?"

Balthazar looked at the wall. "I can't tell, my powers are... off. Without the faith or my power, it probably had two weeks. But I don't know how much time has passed since them."

"Then we'd best get moving as fast as possible. Katarin, I suggest you return to your people. Gelt," he paused. "I hope to see you on the battlefield again."

Gelt didn't pause, he only reached out a hand and brushed the Tzarina's shoulder in thanks. Then he put his feet to Quicksilver's sides and the beast cantered off before taking into the sky, a majestic silver streak against the grey clouds.

"Good luck, Patriarch," Katarin whispered into the air.

Vlad stepped forward. "You should return to your armies, Emperor, I must begin my work. He stalked off to prepare his undead host to delay the armies of the Everchosen, to buy the mortal world some time.

* * *

Archaon didn't allow an assault through the wall when the first section of it came tumbling down. No, he could feel that there was no power left in it, nothing fueling it against him. He kept up the bombardment until the wall was broken in a hundred places before sending the command to unleash the hordes.

He could see a shambling mass of figures assembled beyond the wall. So they'd left a rearguard. It didn't matter. "I return to your realm, Sigmar False-God," he said as his armies, almost frothing at the mouth with anticipation of battle, surged forward in a great wave of death and chaos. "And I will bring it crashing down."

 **A/N: So that's the end of that bit. Sorry if it seems rushed but I wanted to move onto the more exciting stuff ASAP. From now on though, with the stories being far more in depth and there being far more of them, I will be posting them as separate ones on my account. I'll be uploading the first chapter of the first one once this chapter is out. This is going to be a much more long term project than I thought, and I hope you'll stick by me through it all.**

 **There will be another chapter at the end of this story, but that will just be a list of all the stories in it, to have them in one place.**


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